


A Thorne Among The Roses

by Brendan_Rendering



Series: The Ghost of A Thorne Among The Roses [1]
Category: BBC Ghosts
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Byron - Freeform, Death, Developing Relationship, F/M, Georgian Period, Ghosts, Historical, Love, Poetry, Regency, Revenge, Rivalry, Romance, duel, georgian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24585334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brendan_Rendering/pseuds/Brendan_Rendering
Summary: “You really want to know what vexed me?Fine I'll tell you.Lord Byron was my greatest foe, if I had flesh - and this were Byron himself - I would damn well run  him through!  He stole my verse, my destiny and now he is to steal the woman of my dreams.”This is the story of  how Thomas came to be a Ghost of Button house, his hatred for Byron and his penchant for lovelorn poetry.-----------------------------------------The poetry is all the work of Lord Byron.Everything that is underlined  is a quote from or a reference to a show or song by the Idiots.
Relationships: Thomas Thorne/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Ghost of A Thorne Among The Roses [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1780309
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1 - A Longing For Something Just Out Of Reach

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fanfiction and I don't claim ownership of the characters. Ghosts was created, written by and stars Mathew Baynton, Simon Farnaby, Martha Howe-Douglas, Jim Howick, Laurence Rickard & Ben Willbond.  
> Copyright of the above & the BBC.  
> Characters and themes used within are done with the highest respect of the creators and used under the fair use exception to the British copyright law. Fair dealing is governed by Sections 29 and 30 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.”  
> https://www.bl.uk/business-and-ip-centre/articles/fair-use-copyright-explained#

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Adrian Von Ziegler – Night Mist
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6gE1FCNFG40&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNTQ9gNtW612O2qujhgHJ4yu

The candle's flame flickered as he sighed, he stared into the dancing amber glow, the only light in the darkening room and stroked the spine of his quill. The parchment before him was not covered with his words, as he hoped it would be. He would not be remembered for this work, he flicked the quill back and forth between his ink stained fingers as he read what he had written and sighed again. 

It wasn't enough, it was never good enough, all the large ink blots concealing words like black holes, drawing in all of the words around, as if pulling them from his mind straight into the abyss. The blots with the lines roughly crossing out sentences, asking, pleading the reader to disregard what was written underneath.

All the words were in his head, of this he was certain, he could see them, see images of what he wanted to write about, so clearly they were emblazoned in his mind's eye. He pictured scenes, moors rolling out in front of him, the endless miles of open and untouched land, he saw every detail, felt the breeze on his face and smelled the heather. He was there, in the moment, he could have reached out and touched the rocks, felt the grass underfoot, eyes pulled skywards to the birds wheeling overheard. But still the words would not come.

'Maybe', he thought as he lifted his gaze from his work to the falling twilight outside his window, 'I need to experience real love before I can write about it. I must know first hand of it's sweetness before I can truly compare it to the fruits of spring and the pain of longing, before my words can have real meaning and depth.' He considered this as he observed the darkness closing in around the trees in the distance, slowly bowing out of the scene as the play of daylight finishes and the curtain falls bringing another restless night.

The next night was no different, his shirt buttoned fully, cravat pulled tight to his neck, waistcoat and jacket drawn closed to keep out the chill. This night matched his darkening mood despite the extra candles burning around the room, throwing dancing shadows onto the walls and across his still bare parchment. He scratched the dry quill idly in circles, his attention drawn to the rain lashing against the window, it was a relentless army with battalion after battalion advancing at speed and throwing themselves mercilessly against the glass. A never ending assault that would have been admired for it's persistent spirit, if only he didn't feel this deep sadness within. It was a longing for something just out of reach, a hollow emptiness filling his chest and spreading throughout his body. So consuming he felt it could turn him to stone, from the inside out, he would remain sitting in this chair, perfectly preserved until one of the servants found him on the morrow. 

They would enter his chamber without a care, to perform their usual duties of fetching his breakfast and stoking the fire. Maybe it would be timid George the young apprentice who still wouldn't meet his gaze and crept around the house as a shadow, scared to make his presence felt. It would scar the poor boy to find his master in such a state, he wouldn't recover. His body, turned statue, could be discovered by good old John - a cheery fatherly figure who'd been in employ of the house since he himself was a boy. Always whistling, quick to laugh, never complaining of his position or resentful of his chores. He imagined the smile sliding from John's face as the snow pile falls from the stable roof when struck with a broom and crashes to the ground. John would rush to his master's side, murmuring in shock then crying out to raise the alarm. Of all the house's inhabitants, it would be John who keeps his head in that situation. Thomas imagined his stone body carried out into the walled garden, stood upon a plinth while his grieving family watched on, confused and wailing. The plaque in front would read.

_“Here stands Thomas Thorne. Beloved son, brother, nephew._  
Accomplished poet, play write and author.  
May his memory endure the test of time as his words surely will.”

This image brought a rueful smile to his otherwise haunted face, his mind tended to wonder to strange places, especially when he was trying to write. He was faced with these clear images playing out scenes in his head, a distraction from his work they were more of a hindrance than a help for his writing. Again lost for inspiration, he looked back down at the parchment in front of him and tightened his grip on the quill stem. 'Come on Thomas,' he silently urged himself.

His attention pulled back to the window a few moments later as he heard the unmistakable sound of hooves thundering up the drive, the noise drowning out the rain still hammering against the window. He squinted through the splashes obscuring his view to identify the figure dressed all in black, bundled up under a large riding cloak that was flailing out behind them, wide brimmed hat pulled low to keep off the rain, covering their face as they urged the horse towards the front door of the house.

The rider slowly sat back off the withers, upright in the saddle they relaxed into a rolling canter, to a controlled trot and finally pulled up. They swiftly threw a leg over the back of the saddle and dropped to the floor, with the look of an experienced horseman, it was an instinctive movement. Although he admired the rider's grace and control he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that was growing in the pit of his stomach. Who would ride out in this weather? At this time of the evening? What message could be so important it couldn't wait until a clear sky and the clarity of morning? He tried to push this thought to the back of his mind while he attempted to concentrate on his work once again, until this was no longer an option as his peace was shattered.

“Thomas!” The cry was accompanied by hurried footsteps in the corridor, he dropped his quill at this unexpected unseemly behaviour. His mother threw open his chamber door and burst into the room as he quickly stood and turned to face her. He was immediately drawn to the look of pure horror etched on her comely features, a damp folded parchment clutched tightly in her grasp. His mother seemed faint and lost for words as he moved to cross the room towards her, he almost drew level with her before a dark figure appeared in the doorway. Soaked through, splattered with mud, dripping onto the fine carpet and smelling of the fresh, cold evening air. The rider, who remained behind his mother, reacted just in time to grab her and hold her upright before she slumped to the floor. Thomas took his final strides to reach the unlikely pair, his mother seemed close to collapse and not at all fazed by the state of the rider she was leaning into for support. Her dress was soaked and mud stained now but she made no move to pull away and was reluctant to speak. Thomas hesitated, undecided what to make of this unexpected scene as the rider reached up and dragged the dripping hat from his head, throwing it to the floor. Thomas would usually be appalled at this rude behaviour and the gathering puddle emanating from the offending object, had it not been for the rider's face.

Soaked not only from the rain but also tears, as evident by his blotchy face and bloodshot eyes. He looked at Thomas, unspeaking but a thousand words seemed to pass between him and his cousin, James. In that instant his mother wailed as she reached forward for Thomas, grabbing his lapel with one hand and thrusting towards him the now crumpled parchment with the other. Thomas reached out a tentative hand for the parchment, while also trying to comfort his crying mother, who was clearly beside herself with grief. A second before he unfolded the note he caught James' eye and wished he hadn't. James stood in the doorway, staring at Thomas with a steely gaze that could have been interpreted as distant or unfriendly if it wasn't for the tears streaming down his face. 

Thomas scanned the note and staggered as if about to fall, the weight of his mother on his arm kept him upright. He allowed the note to fall to the floor as he wrapped both arms around his mother and they wept freely together. It was uncertain how long they stood as one, mother and son clinging to one another, grieving in mostly silence apart from the occasional murmur of “why?” and “no, surely not, by the gods, please no.”

Thomas was aware of a wet arm draped around his shoulders and a lean body leading him and his mother downstairs, through the house into the drawing room. He was aware of his father standing with hands clasped behind his back so tight his fingers were white, staring out of the window at the waterlogged lawn. Always a strong and imposing figure, his father's shoulders were now slumped and Thomas knew he stood with his back to the room, not to admire the view, but to hide his face.

His mother collapsed weeping onto a sofa as Thomas stared at his father's back. The shadows from the few hastily lit candles dancing across his worn house jacket. It was as though he was waiting, for something he could not express, waiting to be woken from this nightmare. Thomas was roused by James forcing a large brandy into his tightly balled fist, which he accepted gratefully and threw back in a single gulp, he placed the tumbler carefully onto a table to avoid throwing it across the room in frustration.

His mind drifted again, until James re-entered the room, dressed in Thomas' clothes, an open necked shirt and loose britches. James was more a son in this house than a nephew, he knew he was welcome to help himself to clean dry clothes and left the family to their individual grieving while he changed. Thomas shook his head, wondering how many moments had slipped away since he'd drunk the brandy, he hadn't noticed James leaving the room, so thick with grief was the fog in his head. 

Thomas' father had turned from the window, framed against the backdrop of the night sky, clouds outside forming like a halo behind him, a defeated look and tears etched on his face. “I'm sorry,” James eventually choked, shattering the heavy silence hanging in the room. Thomas threw himself from the sofa and wrapped his arms tightly around his beloved cousin, still unable to speak.

“Say she didn't suffer,” Thomas finally murmured, his mother renewing her cries of anguish and the steely gaze of his father dropping to the floor. James pulled back from Thomas' grasp and held his face betwixt his hands. “It was quick, she wouldn't have felt a thing.” His earnest expression was all the reassurance Thomas needed and he gripped James by the shoulders to steady himself.

“How could this happen?” His mother wailed to the room at large, his father's gaze snapped up from the floor and he spoke with a kindness the look in his eyes did not suggest. “We knew this day would come, Jane. We always knew Katherine would......she was always so...” He trailed off as a sob escaped his throat.

“She was a wonderful rider William, the best I knew, it was no-one's fault. It couldn't have been prevented. She died doing what she loved. I know she wouldn't have wanted it any other way.” James offered his reassurances to the family but they felt flat and inadequate. Jane dabbed her ineffective handkerchief against her eyes and implored her nephew, "come and sit James, you must be weary from your ride. Tell us everything." 


	2. Chapter 2 - You'll Scare The Stars Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Allman Brown - Moonlight
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nJXT5w3TYyc&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNTQ9gNtW612O2qujhgHJ4yu&index=2

Thomas mused on the closeness between himself and James, they had grown up together, so similar in age for the difference to be irrelevant. They had always looked out for one another, exploring at each other's side as children, learning and growing into teenagers together and still close as adults. They had created countless memories together, Thomas recalled fondly the occasion that led to the scar on his calf. He peeled back the years of memory in his mind, drawing every detail back into his consciousness, reliving that night again. He smiled with the happiness and thrill that memory still brought him, despite the scar that it had left him with.

His scar had been caused by a riding accident when they had both sneaked out to the stables for a midnight hack as little more than children. They had taken the largest geldings to prove their prowess in the saddle, breaking into a canter as soon as they were out of earshot of the house, galloping across the deathly silent fields. They were swiftly swallowed up by the darkness and the thrill of the ride, the freedom, the companionship. They hooted like owls and howled like wolves as they urged their mounts faster, the chill whipping at their faces and snatching away their breath, trying to reclaim the night back for nature, but nothing could have stopped these unruly youngsters that night. Nothing that is, except a tree stump hidden in the dark.

It was Thomas' horse, King Bernard who clipped it with a raised foreleg, with no time to react Thomas was thrown forward over Bernard's shoulder. Shock rendered him unable to curl into a ball as he fell and he landed heavily on the dewy grass, his left calf falling squarely onto a large branch. His eyes were filled with the stars stretching across the night sky, tiny pinpricks of brilliant light, a million miles away yet somehow right here. He believed with all of his heart he could touch them if he were only to reach out, he remembered raising his arm, stretching upwards, wondering why he wasn't getting any closer and why he was so cold. 

Suddenly James' worried face filled his vision, his mouth moving like he was shouting, but there was no sound. Thomas tried to push James away, to reach out again into the night for the stars, but his arm batted away by James who gripped him by the shoulders. He was slowly coming into sharper focus as Thomas could now hear sounds to match his mouth movements, James was shouting, screaming. The sharp sudden noise travelled fast across the fields and shattered the silence as the heavy footfalls of their horses had done a moment earlier.

“Shut up,” Thomas croaked, “you'll scare the stars away.” James grasped Thomas' face between his hands and stared intently into his eyes, looking for signs of damage. “Can you sit up? Can you walk?” Thomas didn't like the urgency in James' voice but he was cold, it must be the damp ground he appeared to be lying on and felt as though sitting up would alleviate this discomfort. James grasped his hand and supported his elbow to pull him into a sitting position, he looked around and saw the horses grazing peacefully no more than twenty paces away, he gasped suddenly as the memory of the fall flooded into his brain.

“Your leg...” James trailed off and reached towards Thomas' calf, he gripped James' wrist to prevent him from touching the painful area, “it's fine, I'm fine. Is Bernard hurt?” There was a terror in James' eyes that Thomas couldn't fathom, this was a time for logic and seriousness, he needed his cousin to pull himself together. “I don't know...” James turned to look at the horses, bathed in moonlight, peaceful and serene. “He didn't fall, he stumbled but kept his footing. He looks like he's standing fine now. We need to walk them back to the stables...Can you stand?”

Thomas felt as though he could stay forever in this moonlit field with his best friend, their horses grazing and occasionally snorting nearby, the stars stretched out overhead and the fields rolling out before them in the darkness. But he knew James was right. 

As they walked slowly back along the lanes, a fox froze in the hedgerow, lowered it's belly to the ground and swivelled it's ears, staring transfixed at the boys – one leaning heavily on the other. The smell of blood and adrenaline in the air, the horses clopping placidly alongside. It sniffed a final time before turning tail and disappearing through a gap in the hedge, strange things were afoot this night.

Thomas sat on a feed barrel as James silently led the horses back to their stalls, removed, cleaned and hung the tack in it's usual place. He brushed any evidence of sweating and mud from both horses before running his hands thoroughly over the legs of Bernard. “Not a scratch, no lumps or heat,” he whispered through the gloom to Thomas, some of the horses were alert, watching this covert scene play out over their stable doors. They flicked their ears at the conversation, stamping their hooves eagerly at the thought of action, even from these amateur jockeys. They began to settle again as the retreating silhouettes of the boys slipped back out into the night, arm in arm as they ever were and ever would be. The unbreakable bond of blood, friendship from a shared childhood and a secret to be kept. They crossed the yard, entered the house, changed out of their dirty clothes and bandaged Thomas' bleeding leg with all the stealth of assassins. “It doesn't look too bad,” James whispered, “nothing broken, the cut isn't too deep.”  
“It hurts like hell,” Thomas retorted, hissing through his teeth, gripping the arm of his chair with clawed fingers until the bandaging was complete.

He slept on his back that night, staring up into the canopy over his bed as dark as the night sky. He saw the stars again, felt the wind hitting his face, pulling at his clothes and whisking his voice away into the darkness. He was once again rushing through the night on the back of his trusty steed, heavy footfalls thudding into the grass until he faltered and he felt himself falling through the darkness again. Thomas slept fitfully, waking occasionally with the pain in his leg and the stars in the sky filling his vision. He found himself again reaching up to touch them, but his fingers closed only around the warm, windless air of his chamber. 

His leg healed with only a scar to show for his ordeal, where the sharp branch had torn into his skin, otherwise he was completely recovered, much to his and James' relief. They had avoided eye contact with each other until they were sure nothing would be said about Bernard after their illicit ride and Thomas' leg was healed. For weeks after their midnight adventure, they would often grin at each other as co-conspirators in opportune moments, forever united by their secret. The memory of this faded over the years as they grew into men, still at each other's side. But sometimes Thomas would lie awake at night, staring up at his bed canopy and see the stars.

This memory flooded back into Thomas' mind as fast as they had ridden together that night, everything rushing back into consciousness with such clarity as Thomas looked at James. Long after James had finished recounting the events that had led to his cousin's death, many tears were shed and many brandies were sunk in an attempt to forget the present, while keeping the stream of anecdotes from the past flowing freely.

The family eventually retired, exhausted and intoxicated, the household was sluggish in their mourning for weeks after. James stayed to console the family, worried especially for Thomas who had always been sensitive and close to his sister.

Thomas spent many hours sat at his desk, occasionally throughout night, burning through many candles and thinking about his lost sister, of the years they had together, and the years that they could no longer share. He wrote little and nothing that adequately expressed the deep burning pain he felt rippling inside him, one verse was all he kept from that time:

>   
>  “So we'll go no more a roving,  
>  So late into the night.  
>  Though the heart be still as loving,  
>  And the moon be still as bright.“  
> 

Thomas stayed in his room for weeks, writing, burning the pages over his candle's flame and staring lifelessly out of the window. Unaware of the hushed conversations held outside his chamber door, his mother plotting with James to take Thomas out of the house, to attend parties with his cousin, to shake him of his melancholy.

James was all too happy to comply, but he knew his cousin well enough to know this wouldn't be easy, he threw open Thomas' door one morning, striding in and placing a comforting but firm hand on his cousin's shoulder, Thomas was slumped over his desk, in front of a blank parchment and a full inkwell as usual.

"Come now Thomas, our horses are saddled, I'm going home home today and I wish for you to accompany me on the road, a ride will do us both good.” Thomas sighed as he stared out of the window at the dull grey morning, he wasn't convinced. “I don't want to go to the city, I wish to stay at home and mourn my dear, dear sister.”

James winced and patted his cousin's arm affectionately, gently removing the quill from his grasp and carefully laying it on the desk. “I know cousin, but please give this a chance, it's what Katherine would have wanted. She would want us to take a break away from the house and experience the high society of London.” 

Thomas sighed again, he was sure there was nothing for him in the city, but was also too tired to argue, he allowed himself to be guided to the front door where two horses were waiting for him and James. His parents stood to one side, trying to remain positive for all of their sakes, his mother pulled him into a tight hug as his father explained. “You and James can ride out now, me and your mother will follow in the carriage as soon as we've packed. We'll meet you there and take some much needed time away from this house. James has kindly invited us all to a ball next month, we'll stay with him until at least then.”

Thomas managed a smile as his father finished speaking, seeing the sense in his words and feeling excitement creep into the fringes of his mind, an unfamiliar visitor of late but now much welcomed.


	3. Chapter 3 - Stars twinkling down on them from lofty heights.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Blackmore's Night – Ghost Of A Rose
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kPk9c0UK0Fg&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNTQ9gNtW612O2qujhgHJ4yu&index=3

Thomas stood in the ballroom with his back to the wall, scowling across the dance floor, not wanting to meet anyone's gaze or make polite conversation as he knew was expected of him. The dancing did not thrill him tonight, too many smiling couples twirling around the room, in their finery to the upbeat music. This had been one of Thomas' favourite ways to spend an evening, but not this evening, perhaps never again.

He sighed as he lifted his glass to take a sip of the strong wine, intending to drown out the pain of his sister's death, but the glass remained midway to his lips as a couple breezed past him. The lady's forget-me-not blue dress floating around her as if she was clothed in smoke, furling around her. Sometimes the dress appeared to be swallowing her within it's folds, but on occasion fading into the background to allow her to shine through. Her dress matched her deep azure eyes that sparkled with laughter as her face came into Thomas' view but was quickly whisked away by her partner.

Thomas stared at her back as they made their way across the dance floor, swirling through the gathering of dancers. The couple followed the ebbing currents of the crowd and yet somehow always remaining as the central focus, as if in a spotlight. Thomas realised this was partly because the lady was completely out of sync with the music, she looked happy and was moving confidently, but not in time to the music. 'If she were mine,' he mused to himself, 'I would teach her to dance.'

He was lost in a daydream, imagining a world where he was dancing with this mystery lady, they would fall in love, be married, there would be children. He would finally become a world-renowned poet, his work recognised and praised. His family would be cared for, he would have the life he always wanted, it would all start with this lady he had not yet had the pleasure of meeting. He smiled ruefully, 'I have a lot of dreams', he thought, 'and most of them are about women.'

He realised his arm was still hovering half way to his face with his glass remaining full, he shot a furtive glance around the room, to check no-one in the vicinity had noticed his momentary lapse in concentration. He sunk back his wine, hailed a passing butler with a tray of empty glasses to offload his own, headed for the French doors and beckoning cool evening air. Once outside he skirted around the other guests enjoying the fresh air, maintaining a distance to stay unnoticed by them, not wanting the company tonight. He left the tiled patio in favour of the gravel path and anonymous shelter of the immaculately pruned hedges. He was not intending to stray so far from the party and certainly did not wish to appear rude to his host, but he could not resist the solitude of this quiet corner of the garden.

Thomas pushed open the door leading into the walled garden, stepped inside and closed the door behind him, breathing a sigh of relief to have a physical barrier between himself and the world outside. He admired the beautifully landscaped surroundings, the perfectly clipped shrubbery, the array of flowers, fountains and ivy growing wild over the walls. In perfect contrast to the order and perfection to the flowers and shrubs in the garden, the ivy snaked over the walls at will, unruly, untameable. He lowered himself onto a bench, noticing the rose beds still just distinguishable in the falling dusk, he was entranced by the flowers swaying in the breeze and the babbling of a nearby fountain.

Thomas' attention snapped back into focus at the sound of light footsteps on the gravel approaching him, he picked at a loose thread in his shirtsleeve and sighed. He was in no mood for company and did not wish to justify his presence in this deserted part of the garden, when he was clearly expected to be at the house.

He raised his eyes defiantly, ready to argue his position when he caught sight of that forget-me-not dress meandering slowly towards him. The lady seemingly distracted, stopping occasionally to reach out delicately to touch the flower heads. Thomas stood quickly, immediately wishing he hadn't been so hasty as he felt light-headed, he cleared his throat to announce his presence.

"Oh," the lady stopped in her tracks, retracting her arm sharply back to her side in surprise, "Begging your pardon, good sir, I did not realise there was anyone else here." She stepped forward, smiling shyly at Thomas, with a knowing warmth as though they were already firm friends, sharing a secret, both caught somewhere they shouldn't be. "I had grown weary of dancing and wished to partake in a quiet walk, I was not aware this garden was already occupied."

Thomas, the poet, the man of many beautiful and coherent words, was struck dumb. Not just by her physical beauty, but her ease of manner, her wit, the way she seemed to be challenging him, daring him to enquire further.

"I confess I also wished for peace away from the party...however pleasant it may be." He added quickly, not knowing who this lady was and not wishing to cause offence. Thomas assumed she was someone of importance, the way she captivated the ballroom. She held Thomas in awe and he believed everyone else must surely see the brilliant light emanating from within her. He was quick to continue, in case she changed her mind and left him alone again in the garden. "I would certainly not object to sharing this beautiful garden with you awhile, my lady."

She smiled warmly, a smile that reached her eyes and, for Thomas, lit up the walled garden brighter than a thousand candles could have illuminated the ballroom. "It seems we have a common purpose, sir, would you walk with me awhile so that we may enjoy this garden - and it's peace – together?"

Thomas stepped forward proudly, holding out his arm for her, which she took and relaxed into him as they fell into step. "I noticed you dancing earlier my lady, you looked content, although I must confess I did not rate your dance partner." He attempted to keep his tone light but suddenly found he had many pressing issues to discuss and important questions to ask, impatient but bound by rules of society, he held his tongue against a further barrage for fear of scaring her away.

"Sir, you are very observant," was she laughing at him? At his impudence? "I was happy for a time, my partner was attempting to teach me to dance but I fear it is a skill I simply cannot master. The awkward display of our dancing was, I must admit, entirely my own doing."

Thomas found himself smiling fully, mimicking her expression, he dropped his gaze to the ground to hide his amusement and awkwardness. When she turned to him, he lifted his head and spoke seriously. "My lady I believe everyone should know how to dance, especially - and please forgive my rudeness - a lady as beautiful as you." She laughed and squeezed his arm affectionately, "well sir if that is indeed your opinion, won't you kindly rectify this situation for me?" She came to a halt, "teach me how to dance in the manner you believe a lady should be able to."

Thomas stopped alongside her, caught unaware, he was not expecting this exchange to proceed so well, or for the conversation to be so forward. "My lady, I was merely suggesting...I do not claim to be an expert myself and would hate to disappoint."

"Nonsense," she stepped in front of him and gazed into his face fully for the first time, noticing how his deep, expressive mahogany eyes matched his tousled hair. "I am a complete amateur," she insisted, "anything you could teach me would be an improvement on the little I already know."

Thomas gingerly reached for her outstretched hand as they assumed the position, he offered tips on form and movement as they slowly began to dance in a circle on the path. "Most importantly, my lady," his voice almost a whisper now as they leaned their heads towards one another in a natural stance. "The thing that is of the utmost importance while dancing, is to enjoy one's self." He beamed at her, delighted by the way she was responding to his movements, more than those of her previous dance partner. It felt natural, right, dancing with such a beautiful lady here in this perfect garden. This was Thomas' dream.

"It would seem that dancing is easier when one has a partner who one genuinely enjoys dancing with," she retorted, her cheeks flushed from the chill of the night and the excitement of the dance, laughter sparkling in her eyes. They shuffled and twirled in the gathering gloom, neither of them noticing the darkness drawing in around them. They moved subtly closer together throughout the dance, their steps naturally in tune with one another and gradually quickening. The lady released a laugh that seemed to echo around the walls of the garden and reverberate inside Thomas' head, the stars twinkling down on them from lofty heights, observing this age-old play unfold below. The couple were perfectly content in each other's company and could have danced the night away in their hidden corner of the garden. Had fate not intervened, as is it's want, so often in these situations, in it's attempt to cast asunder this pairing that could only exist within these walls.

"Beth?" came a call from somewhere around the gate through which they had both entered the garden, they sprang apart as if static had passed between them. The lady looked crestfallen as she dropped her hand from his grasp. "My sister is calling for me...I'm sorry, I must go," she gathered her skirt and threw him another disarming smile as she hastily retreated. "Thank you for the dance kind sir, thanks to you this has been the most enjoyable party Lord Byron has ever thrown for me."

Thomas was dumbfounded, rooted to the spot on which he stood as she disappeared into the darkness, through the gate into a world where the two of them could seemingly not exist together.

After her footsteps had fallen silent as she slid through the night, out of his reach, the silence in the garden became oppressive. The sudden hush reprimanding him for not saying more to her, stopping her from leaving, accompanying her. He forced himself to move after a time, slowly following her footsteps on the path leading away from the garden, back towards the party. His mind was spinning with this new information. Byron. This was Byron's ball. He had neglected to ask James who their host was this evening, still lost in his grief at the time. Byron. Of all the balls in London, he had to be at Byron's.

He made his way back towards the house, footsteps heavy with regret, mind reliving his brief time with Beth...Elizabeth, in the garden. He noticed James out on the patio as he drew close, searching with a worried expression, he approached to James' obvious relief. "Where have you been?" His cousin scolded, "I realised I had not seen you in a while, hadn't noticed you dancing all night, come to think of it." James paused and shot a meaningful sideways glare before continuing. "I thought you must have wandered off somewhere, probably into the gardens, probably alone."

Thomas smiled at his cousin's concern, correct judgement of his social skills and party etiquette. "You know me too well, cousin. As it happens I did feel the need for a moment of peace, I strolled out to the walled garden, where I was later joined by a delightful lady, with whom I shared a pleasant dance. Her name was Elizabeth, she informed me Byron had thrown this party for her...do you know of her?"

James nodded wisely and took a moment to answer, "so...you met Elizabeth Winton? Of all the eligible women here tonight you had to dance with her." He paused and looked around to ensure no-one was eavesdropping before continuing. "She's a remarkable woman, intelligent, accomplished, witty. She has it all, no doubt. What you should know about her - she is betrothed to our host this evening, Lord Byron." James slapped Thomas sympathetically on the back, "forget her Thomas, she's as good as married."


	4. Chapter 4 - For one more evening in the walled garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Faun – Wild Rose
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cB3r7hbeN9o&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNTQ9gNtW612O2qujhgHJ4yu&index=4

Thomas was all at sea the next day, lethargic and distracted. He had eventually, after much wandering around the house, seated himself at his desk to write. His attention captured for a while by the distant firs lining the edge of the lawn. He had shaken himself out of his daydream, back into the present, to the task in hand, but found his gaze pulled skywards evermore. The birds wheeling about the treetops like the thoughts in his head he could not shake. It was no use, after much time had elapsed, the only mark he had made on the parchment was a spot of ink that had dripped unnoticed from his quill nib. Thomas stared at the spot for a moment, the otherwise blank page daunting, sapping any unique or poetic words from his mind. Eventually he replaced the quill but left the parchment on the desk, sighed heavily and stood, absent-mindedly drifting down to the stables.

Fussing over his horse, he brushed and fed her an apple stealthily taken from the kitchen. “Oh Imperatrix,”  he breathed into the horse's neck, resting his forehead against her mane. “How lucky you are to have been born a horse! Your life spent cared for, with every comfort provided, this beautiful landscape your home and playground. Freedom and safety, never knowing heartbreak.” Thomas wrapped his arms around her neck, gripping a fistful of mane in frustration and breathed deeply, inhaling the sweet smell of hay and warm hair. “Oh to be a horse!”

Imperatrix reached for the hay in a rack on the wall after her apple, chewing with eyes half closed, soothed by Thomas' presence and unmoved by his turmoil. Her ears flicking occasionally at his outbursts but unconcerned by the anguish of her master, or anything else beyond the hay in her rack. Thomas stood back, ran a firm hand lovingly down her neck and sighed, admiring her elegance and strength. One day he'd write a poem about horses, the beauty of wild horses, running free on the plains of some far flung country. A poem of freedom and forbidden love.

He pulled on her halter, led her out into the yard where he tacked and mounted her, they leisurely made their way down the lane and into the fields beyond. This was not a time for speed, there was no great passion or urgency felt by Thomas today, instead he was quietly reflecting on the events of last night. The ball he was unimpressed by, it being Byron's doing. From anyone else Thomas would have readily conceded the house was magnificent, the ballroom spectacular, the musicians finely versed in their craft and the music perfectly befitting the occasion. He could not have faulted the wine or the canapés on offer, but knowing they were Byron's, Thomas could not praise them - or the evening that unfolded.

That is, except for the events that occurred outside of the ballroom, in the walled garden, far away from the bright lights, the loud music and the crush of bodies – and most importantly Byron himself. Thomas would have been content had he been granted solitude in the garden to while away the evening. As fate would have it, he was considerably more pleased when he was joined by the most graceful company among the roses.

He slouched in the saddle, body rocking to the natural rhythm of his horse's plodding hooves, lazily picking through the meadow, Imperatrix happy to be out in the fields and Thomas lost in the world of yesterday.

The first sight of Elizabeth, he remembered fondly, the way she stepped close enough to be seen and her features illuminated in the moonlight. She shone brighter than had she been under the glare of the gaslights on a London theatre stage. Even the moon herself could not adequately highlight a beauty such as Elizabeth, her light was powerful, so perfectly flattering it could only be emanating from within. Her light shining from her very core of being, her soul.

Her delicate laughter floating in the air between them, her eyes warm and friendly, without a trace of apprehension or dislike at being in the company of a stranger. The glint in her eyes had suggested a world of possibilities, any outcome from that night. No. He could not allow himself to think like that, she was betrothed to another.

However...

The way she spoke to him, the way she danced with him, their closeness last night suggested a distance between herself and Byron. An ill match where she would find no happiness. The solution was simple, Thomas had found a soulmate in Elizabeth, he would care for her and love her until her dying day and beyond. She was a lady who was his very model of perfection, far too good to spend her life with the likes of Byron, who deserved no happiness in marriage. The thieving git. The solution therefore was so obvious to Thomas, the betrothal should be broken, Byron left to rot in his mansion alone, leaving Elizabeth free to marry Thomas instead. Happily ever after for them both and to hell with Byron.

Thomas gritted his teeth and raised his head skywards, showing the tears in his eyes only to the clouds. “I cannot and will not bear it,” He choked, “a pox on them all! apart from Elizabeth. I'm going to drown myself in the lake!” He realised the futility of this statement as soon as he said it aloud and instantly regretted it. Awkwardly he leaned forward and patted Imperatrix's neck reassuringly. “I obviously won't drown myself in the lake, but that is how I feel.” He sighed deeply.

Why couldn't he have met Elizabeth before Byron? Before their betrothal? Why couldn't he have been at her side in the ballroom last night? Then every night, for evermore. Thomas had so much passion to bestow, his words could woo any lady, but the only lady he desired was promised to another, a lesser man.

His frustration boiled in his veins, finding the energetic clarity he'd been missing all day, he gathered his reins and dug in his heels. Imperatrix, always swift to respond, lengthened her stride and stretched her neck forwards, obeying the urgent command of “Onwards! Onwards!”

Horse and rider gathered momentum through the meadow and along the river road. The tears in Thomas' eyes had cleared enough for him to notice the group of villagers about to cross the bridge ahead of him. He was unable to stop himself from urging his horse forwards as he shouted “MAKE WAY!”

One of the group jumped over the low wall before the main arch of the bridge, Thomas heard the splash as he fell into the river with a degree of guilt. Satisfied they'd all escaped unscathed, although mostly shaken and one definitely wet, Thomas' thoughts turned back to the lady of the previous evening, the lady of his life.

For he knew he would never find another like Elizabeth. He would never feel for another what he felt for her, could never love another the way he loved her. Despite them meeting only hours ago and spending precious few moments together, he knew that experience was the pinnacle of his life. The memory of Elizabeth haunted his dreams last night, his every waking moment since, twirling in his mind as they had danced in the moonlit tranquillity of the garden. He would give his life, his every moment still yet to live, for just one more moment in her arms.

Thomas raised himself in the stirrups, crouching over the withers as he urged Imperatrix forwards, a different meadow now, not another soul to consider. His only company were the memories in his mind, to be whisked away by the wind. If only he could gallop through the pain, quick enough to leave behind the unfairness, the indignity, the feel of her soft hair against his neck. 

He could not gallop faster than his whirring thoughts, could not outrun or escape his memories, his desire, his frustration at society and it's stifling rules. The unfairness of his situation haunted him, he could not run away or leave behind the insistent shouts in his mind, loud enough to be heard over Imperatrix's hooves striking the earth. What if....what if...what if...

He could no longer contain the shout that welled inside him. All thoughts focussed on Elizabeth, the image of her sharp in his mind while everything else in the world fell away into the distance, as blurred as the hedgerows he galloped alongside. He opened his mouth to release the tension and let out the only exclamation that came to mind, the last phrase to pass his lips. “MAKE WAY!”

There were no physical barriers to him here in the meadow, any animals would have already fled at the vibrations of Imperatrix's thundering hooves. Instead Thomas was screaming at the metaphorical barriers in his life, the circumstances that prevented his happiness. He shouted at the social rules that bound his class, bent him and all others to it's inflexible will. He was bound from head to toe, as if trapped in a sack tied by rope, unable to wriggle free or ignore the bindings biting into his skin. His escape was simple, he needed to be free to tell Elizabeth of his feelings, she would reciprocate and they could be together, if it wasn't for society they could be free to live as they wished. Elizabeth was the one lady he had ever truly desired and she was out of his reach. Forever.

He longed to see her again, if not forever, for one more evening in the walled garden. A single chance for him to speak his truth, to be face to face with her, arm in arm. He would exchange the rest of his life, his very existence on a single meeting. One more evening with her. One more dance. A look, across a ballroom, for her to know the depth of his love.

The peaceful tranquillity of the land shattered by the horse fervently driven forwards by her anguished rider, as if chased by demons or running after a dream just out of reach. His love just in front of him, tantalisingly close, but simultaneously as distant as the stars. The frustration inside him causing him to urge Imperatrix on, throughout his suffering, hoping to gallop through the pain and emerge at the other side healed, or at least with clarity to move on.

Thomas finally came to his senses and pulled Imperatrix up, slowing her to a walk for most of the way home. His guilt for pushing her too hard manifested in more apples for dinner and an extra rub down, he checked closely for any signs of injury before stabling her for the night and instructing a groom to keep a close eye on her. He strode back to his room, where he ignored pleas from his parents to join them downstairs, he was too upset and angry to face company.

He spent the following weeks in an unshakeable sulk, unable to contact Elizabeth, he had begun taking regular trips into London in the hope of crossing her path, but to no avail. He knew he must be stealthy in his search for her, if Byron found out he would ensure Thomas was punished for bestowing unwarranted attention on a lady betrothed to another. A crime of the upper classes, a major social faux pas that would not go unnoticed and would see him unwelcome at balls in future. He must be subtle and keep his feelings hidden.


	5. Chapter 5 - He would not allow Thomas to be the Thorne in his side.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Hector Berlioz – Symphonie Fantastique – Movement 1 (Idee Fixe )
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lqQBAS8sYVo&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNTQ9gNtW612O2qujhgHJ4yu&index=5

James was worried Thomas was becoming isolated and withdrawn again, as he was after his sister's death, he called on Thomas regularly but he didn't appear to want to leave the grounds or socialise. James was becoming desperate to persuade Thomas back out into society, weeks later he received another invitation to a ball, again hosted by Byron. He knew the animosity Thomas felt towards Byron but James hoped the dislike could be cast aside for an evening, for both himself and Thomas to enjoy the ball. Thomas needed this opportunity, a social gathering that could open doors for him, and hopefully, he could find a wife. That's what Thomas needed, someone to focus his energy and time on, bestow upon his love and passion, settle down.

James dispatched a messenger to his cousin at once to request his company to the ball and was surprised when his man returned immediately with a reply. Tearing open the seal James read the single line Thomas had replied with, 'will this ball be hosted by Byron again? If so, you can count on my company. Thank you for the invitation.'

James frowned as he read the letter again, and again, this was very unlike Thomas, he had expected a lengthy wait for an answer based on his cousin's current melancholy state. The phrasing was unusual, in a tone Thomas did not favour, the handwriting appeared hurried. But it was the words themselves that aroused James' curiosity the most, the question of this ball being Byron's doing he expected, what he didn't expect was an affirmative. James had resolved not to tell Thomas who their host would be, until they were in the carriage on the way to the ball, when it would be too late to turn around. 

Although they had grown up together and were as close as brothers, James could not fathom his cousin at times, his whims or motives. He decided to put his doubts aside and not dwell on Thomas' sudden desire to be in the company of Byron. James would take Thomas' sudden enthusiasm as a positive sign his cousin was healing from his wounds and was ready to socialise once again. 

Upon arrival at Byron's home to attend the ball, Thomas resumed his previous position in the ballroom with his back to the wall, but scanned the room with a fever he did not possess last time. At the previous ball he would rather have been anywhere else, this place being a torture to his troubled soul. Now, however, this was the only place he wanted to be, attempting to suppress a nervous energy, at the home of his enemy Byron, but that wasn't relevant tonight. His only concern was who else would be in attendance tonight, who would be here because Byron was. Thomas was here for the one person who made the last ball a pleasant affair and he was determined to relive his previous experience of Byron's hospitality.

Suddenly, as he cast his glance across the many faces in the ballroom, his furrowed brow of concentration was replaced with a broad smile like the sun appearing from behind the clouds. He had found what he was looking for, his reason for attending the ball tonight, being in Byron's home, this was the moment he'd been waiting weeks for. His actions and speech had been planned for tonight, he had considered every eventuality, repeated to himself in the evening silence of his room, the words he would say. He had played through every conceivable scenario in his mind, over and over again. For this moment.

He strode confidently across the room, stopping short and bowing to a trio of ladies. “Good evening ladies, I hope you are all well and enjoying this marvellous event,” he raised his eyes and met the gaze of the lady in the centre of the group. “Lady Elizabeth, I regret I did not have the opportunity to thank you for the dance last time we met. I would be honoured if you would allow me to rectify this with another dance this evening.”

Her face radiated pleasure and she stepped towards him without hesitation, showing no surprise at his presence or apprehension at his approach, “good sir, I would enjoy nothing more than to spend the evening in your capable company.” She boldly took Thomas' hand and stepped forward onto the dance floor with him. Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder, raising her eyebrows and nodding at her friends, a sign they should entertain themselves without her, as she and Thomas effortlessly merged into the dancing crowd.

They took each other's hands and assumed the position, falling seamlessly into the pose they perfected in the walled garden. Thomas was thrilled to feel her movement and rhythm were more natural and in tune with the music at his guidance. Elizabeth danced much better with him than she could with Byron, this settled the matter in his mind, she should be with him, she belonged with him as he belonged with her. He couldn't believe he was back here again, dancing with the lady Elizabeth – the object of his desire for weeks now, the woman promised to Byron. But yet it was he, Thomas, dancing with her now, in this crowded ballroom, it was the two of them, holding onto each other, for the painfully short length of a song. Thomas was determined to hold onto this moment, he knew he would remember it for the rest of his life, the dance he shared with the lady of his dreams.

“Sir I must confess you have me at somewhat of an awkward position,” his smile turned to momentary concern at Elizabeth's words, “you appear to know my name and yet I am in ignorance of yours.” His smile returned, relieved, as he answered, “please forgive my eagerness in approaching you and your friends without introducing myself properly. I confess I was not thinking, as soon as I saw you I knew I must ask you for another dance. After our meeting, when you left I asked my cousin about you, he enlightened me of your name. I am Thomas Thorne, I am afraid I am not accomplished enough to deserve the title of sir, although tonight I feel as though I have the luck of a king.”

“Thomas Thorne,” she repeated, “you have no need to explain your haste in approaching me tonight, I am eternally grateful you did. Flattered also that you sought me out after I left so abruptly when we met, I must confess I had hoped I would see you here again...if you feel you have the luck of a king, well then I must be as lucky as a queen.”

She smiled coyly at him and his face broke into a broad grin that seemed to light up his whole person, so intensely did the joy emanate from him. They swept gracefully around the dance floor, in perfect synchronisation and oblivious to all others present, but not all others were oblivious to them.

“Who is that with Elizabeth?” snapped Lord Byron to the friend at his shoulder as they both observed the scene unfolding below them from a first floor balcony. His underling took a moment to observe this newcomer before answering, “I am unaware of him, Lord Byron, he does not seem to be a local lord or anyone of note.” Byron scowled in frustration, “get him out of here, put him in a coach home with a strong word in his ear not to return,” he commanded, sharply. “I want him away from her, She's mine, I will be the only man she has eyes for tonight, and then for the rest of her life.” He pressed his tightly balled fists against the banister, without taking his eyes off Elizabeth, his Elizabeth dancing with this stranger.

“Yes Lord Byron,” his man in hire slipped anonymously down the staircase, pausing to gather an accomplice on the way across the dance floor into the throng of the crowd, as Byron observed. His men blended with the dancers, slipping through gaps until they reached the unsuspecting couple. Byron watched his man tap the unwelcome stranger on the shoulder, there was a moment of conversation before the stranger was led away, flanked by Byron's men. Byron wasted no time in heading down the stairs, adjusting his jacket and cravat to his satisfaction on the way to join Elizabeth. But in his haste to approach her, he failed to see the look that passed between her and the stranger as he was led away.

“Miss Elizabeth,” Byron appeared at her shoulder, causing her to start at his unexpected presence, she turned and was unable to hide her disappointment at seeing Byron before her. “May I have the pleasure of this dance?” He bowed stiffly, insincerely, Elizabeth was not forthcoming with her consent.

“If it pleases my Lord Byron, the man I wished to dance with this evening has been led away by friends of yours. I can't image what they want of Mr Thorne but I would appreciate if he was returned here forthwith so that we may continue our dance.” Her impassive face, showing no sign of the warmth and good nature he was expecting, caught him off guard. He was not in the habit of being snubbed, especially so clearly rejected in favour of this stranger and he struggled to keep his composure as he replied. “But of course, my dear Elizabeth, what is your friend's name so that I may retrieve him immediately?”  
“Thomas, Thomas Thorne.”

Byron bowed again and strode across the dance floor, his heels hitting the tiles like whips in his frustration, it was a major blow to his ego having been rejected by Elizabeth, and in public – at his own ball none the less. He consoled himself with the thought that if his men had successfully completed their task, this Thomas Thorne would be in a carriage heading home by now, with a strong warning never to go near Elizabeth again. Byron smiled to himself, Thorne was a mild inconvenience who could easily be dealt with, he wasn't about to allow this usurper to disrupt his plans, he would have Elizabeth for his own and he would not allow Thomas to be the Thorne in his side.

Outside on the driveway, Byron's henchman closed in at Thomas' shoulders as they pushed forward, forcing Thomas to stumble ahead, he tried to twist around, to face them as he spoke. “Gentlemen, please, if you would be so kind as to explain what this is about I'm sure we could discuss this. I am unaware of any wrong-doing I have committed this night, or any other.”

He turned fully and looked imploringly from henchman to henchman, desperately attempting to maintain his look of innocence, he had guessed this was about Elizabeth and his attentions towards her. Had Byron noticed them dancing together? Was he threatened by him? Thomas couldn't help smirking to himself, he was clearly getting under Byron's skin and could take pleasure in that. He was worried how this would affect his future chances of seeing Elizabeth but resolved it would take more than a vengeful Byron to keep him away. Thomas would move the earth itself to be with her, sacrifice anything to dance with her again.

“You know damn well miss Elizabeth is engaged to Lord Byron. You need to show some respect, boy,” one of the henchmen snarled at Thomas. “This is your warning to stay away from her, don't dance with her, don't talk to her, don't contact her or be in the same room as her.”

The second henchman spoke up to fill the stunned silence, left by the harsh words of his accomplice. “As my colleague said, squire, this is your warning, your first warning...there won't be another.” He balled one fist and pushed it into the palm of his other hand, cracking his knuckles in a threatening gesture, in case Thomas missed the menace in his words, he didn't.

Thomas found himself back home before he had processed what had happened, he had been bundled into his carriage, the thinly veiled threat ringing in his ears. The men had observed his departure from Byron's land before they re-entered the house, no doubt to report to Byron. Thomas knew Byron had a reputation for bullying but he refused to be intimidated. Byron had previously stolen his poems and now his love, Thomas vowed he would at least know the name of Thorne, to be haunted by the man he'd stolen from.


	6. Chapter 6 - "He stole my verse, my destiny, and now he is to steal the woman of my dreams."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Lord Huron – Love Like Ghosts
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xPy4pwBnl2c&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNTQ9gNtW612O2qujhgHJ4yu&index=6

James had been invited to another of Byron's parties, Thomas thought bitterly these were becoming a more regular occurrence, no doubt to show off his betrothed to the world. As usual James invited Thomas along as his guest, a request which Thomas readily accepted, choosing to ignore how his attendance was cut short at the previous ball. He thought it best not to mention to James he had already been forcibly removed from Byron's home and warned to stay away, deciding this time to keep his head low and maintain distance from Elizabeth. He could observe her from afar, there was no harm in that, just to see her again. 

“Thomas!” the sharp tone of his cousin's voice roused him from his daydreams more effectively than the hand on his arm. “You appear incredibly distracted this evening cousin, has someone caught your eye?” James enquired with a grin, joining Thomas with his back to the wall of the ballroom, juxtaposing Thomas' tense, upright posture with a slight slouch. This was typical of the easy-going confidence that came naturally to James, Thomas had always admired and aspired to imitate.

James followed Thomas' gaze across the dance floor, he had not torn his vision away from Elizabeth all evening and James leaned in and spoke quieter upon realisation of Thomas' attentions. “Cousin...” his tone and expression were wary and filled with warning, he sympathised for his cousin, hapless in love, ever the romantic, but this was dangerous. They were children no longer, there would be consequences if this was allowed to continue. 

Thomas turned to look James full in the face, noting the concern etched on his features, the same as that night as youngsters they'd taken the horses out on a midnight hack and Thomas had fallen. He remembered vividly lying in the damp grass looking up at the stars – a universe of possibility suspended above him. As if with bated breath observing the progress of the world below, he felt anything would be within reach as long as there were stars in the sky. Thomas didn't feel pain then, merely a detachment from himself, his earthly body lying on the grass but his soul floating among the stars, immune to physical pain, heartbreak, failure. He had been rudely roused from this realisation by James' worried face peering down at him all those years ago, the same concern for his safety he showed now.

Thomas smiled to dispel the tension and lifted his glass for a sip of Byron's, irritatingly pleasant, wine. “Relax James, this is supposed to be a party, you'll never attract the attention of the ladies with a face like that. Let us instead enjoy the generous hospitality of our gracious Lord Byron, who has hosted a most marvellous ball in his wonderful home this evening.”

James returned the smile, noticing the sarcasm in his cousin's words but grateful for his humour, taking it to be a sign of his good mood. James relaxed back against the wall, staring out into the room, as Thomas had been doing all night. He, however, was regarding the crowd in general, not fixated on a single woman but observing and comparing many. He watched the guests waltzing past, scanning for eligible women to ask for a dance. Tonight a dance, which could lead to a betrothal, a big wedding celebration to follow, a life spent rearing children. If they were very lucky, James and his chosen lady could even fall in love, he sighed, love. An ineffable passion every person strove to experience but which bypassed most in favour of a union for convenience, for status, for money. Love was the immeasurable force causing some aristocrats such as themselves to turn their backs on money, family, home, social status. To elope, for the freedom to love whom they chose, chasing a happily ever after. If that was indeed the storybook ending, in the stories James knew of, the king would chase the challenger from the kingdom, even martyr him as an example. It was the exact story he worried appealed to his cousin, in this fantasy Thomas would no doubt play the romantic hero, whisking away a damsel in distress who was already betrothed to a more powerful man. Thomas wrote of those situations in his poems, beautiful words and gallant stories, but Thomas got lost in his work, wanted to live out these stories in reality, but happy every afters were harder to come by in real life. James felt Thomas struggled to differentiate between reality and his fantasies sometimes, lost in his own world and his dreams, he forgot to live.

“I'm more concerned about your fixation on a particular lady this evening.” James intoned, pointedly. “I don't know what you're insinuating,” Thomas retorted, “but you shouldn't trouble yourself with my affairs, I can assure you I'm not looking to court.” Thomas kept his tone light, innocence dancing across his features, but James knew him too well to be convinced.

“That's what I worry about,” the stony edge back in James' voice as he cast a glance around, ensuring no other was close enough to eavesdrop. “I worry about you, I can see what's going on and if I've noticed, you can be sure Byron and his cronies have also. They'll damn well trouble themselves with your affairs, no doubt about that. You have to stop this, Thomas, before it goes any further.”

Thomas gazed over at Elizabeth, dancing with Byron in the centre of the floor, holding the captive gaze of not only Thomas, others were also enthralled by her. Elizabeth's friends were smiling and whispering admiringly amongst themselves, basking proudly in the reflected glow of one of their own, reaching the lofty heights to be worthy of the attention of no less than Lord Byron himself. Elizabeth's parents to one side, holding each other, smiling at the couple, pleased their daughter had been so well matched. It would be an easy life for them now with Byron's money and status.

Elizabeth was so beautiful, so graceful, the way she moved, not a natural dancer but the music radiated from her. Her conversation, it had been scintillating in the tragically short time he had to experience it. Thomas was convinced it was wasted on Byron. Twirling around, the candlelight sparkling from the jewels on her neck, her dress sweeping in an arch across the floor as she held on to Byron to guide her. She looked, Thomas assumed for all the world, uncomfortable with her suitor. Surely, surely, she deserved better than Byron, Thomas knitted his brow in frustration and gripped his glass until his fingers turned pale.

“She's betrothed Thomas, look at them.”

“Why must I always be spurned?” His response was barely a murmur, carrying the weight of his despair. James was taken aback, expecting a characteristically loud Thomas outburst, not this quiet defeat, this was worse. He felt his cousin's pain and defeat, he wanted to grasp Thomas by the shoulders in a comforting embrace but was unable to, not here.

“He stole my verse, my destiny, and now he is to steal the woman of my dreams,” Thomas' voice was icy. James tried to change the subject, worried he would seek vengeance for the poems Byron stole from him. “You think every woman is the woman of your dreams,” James sensed humour couldn't shake Thomas from his dark mood so he reverted to pleading. “Please Thomas you must forget the poems, it is unwise – nay – completely foolhardy to seek retribution for your writing. You must stay away from Elizabeth now, move on.”

“It is no longer about the poems, I can put that to one side, I can write more, there are still words in me yet.” Thomas lifted the closed fist of his free hand to his chest, resting it over his heart. “I am feeling inspired again tonight, perhaps it is this wonderful house, the enchanting music.”

“More likely you've discovered the most inappropriate muse,” James retorted. “Oh, dear cousin, must you harp on so?” Thomas threw back the last of his wine, “I feel an inclination to seek some fresh air...I do not require company.”

Thomas clapped James on the back as a parting gesture, skirted around the crowd of dancers, placing his glass on a passing tray, weaving slightly from the wine or the music, James couldn't tell. He was, however, greatly reassured Thomas kept well away from Elizabeth, heading out of the doors thrown open for tonight, leading on to the patio.

James sighed once Thomas was out of sight, he cared deeply for his cousin, worried over this latest saga Thomas had found himself embroiled in. Always a magnet for drama, Thomas was a troubled soul, jaded by his sister's untimely death, Byron stealing his work and claiming it for his own. Thomas had always been sensitive and dramatic but now James worried Elizabeth would be his undoing. Byron was rumoured to be a violent man, especially when drunk, a powerful man with many connections – not someone to be crossed. James hoped Thomas would be sensible, stay away from Elizabeth and transfer his feelings to an available lady, someone who was worthy of his love.

Thomas now longed for a greater peace than the patio offered, there were too many couples here, whispering in each other's ears, touching hands and stealing kisses in the privacy of the darkness. He quickly headed out of the candlelight's glow, exchanging stone tiles for rough gravel. This path he'd wandered on to once before, his feet insistently taking him onwards, onwards, until he was back here, in this place of tranquillity.

He reached out a hand in the gloom until his fingers closed around the doorknob, gripping and turning he found he must push his shoulder against the stubborn door to persuade it to part from it's frame. It was as though the walled garden knew it was a sanctuary for lovers and Thomas was alone. He couldn't shake off the images of his previous visit to the walled garden, he had entered the garden alone then, but did not remain so. He forced those thoughts from his mind before they overwhelmed him, he could not allow himself to think like this, to hope. Elizabeth would not join him tonight, or any night hereafter. She was with Byron, betrothed to his enemy and he must accept this. He knew James was right, the only course of action would be to wish the couple well and forget Byron's treachery. Harder would it be to forget the way Elizabeth felt in his arms, dancing in the garden that night. But he must. He must.

The gravel crunched underfoot, a sound offensively loud in this peaceful garden at night when all else was quiet, he marched angrily around the outer border path, fighting the urge to rip up the roses, why should Byron have this beautiful garden as well as beautiful Elizabeth? He forced himself to become still, clenching his fists by his side as he squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on his breathing. He slowly relaxed until the sound of rushing blood in his head faded and was replaced once again with the distant music from the ballroom. He opened his eyes and raised his face to the stars. He was disappointed at the clouds drifting across the sky tonight, obscuring the view. Tonight he longed for the sky to be awash with the distant glow, he could happily while away the rest of the evening craning his neck to gaze at their comforting shine. 

The stars always soothed him, he felt as though they guided him along his path, ever present in his life, they represented his ancestors smiling down on him. If all life on Earth originated from the remnants of ancient stars that had collided with the planet, everyone and everything was made of stardust. It was all energy – not created or destroyed, merely taking a different form. He believed people weren't truly gone when they died, instead their life energy converted into the breath of wind. The blossoming of a flower, the twinkle in the eye of a newborn baby, their essence drifting off into the sky to join the stars. It was a Pagan belief, following the laws of nature and believing everything had it's place and was connected to the Earth.

Thomas felt his problems were lessened, put into perspective by the distant glimmers in the night sky, unimaginably huge rocks, burning up, dying out in the vastness of the galaxy. Their final spark of life they used to light up the sky for everyone to see, before they faded away.

How many of those stars were already gone? Dead, ceasing to exist hundreds of years ago but still their light travels, across the universe for many years to reach this small planet. This continent, this country, this county, this village, this mansion, this garden, this man who needed a sign tonight. The stars never failed to make him feel small, but filled with wonder.

>   
>  He recounted some of his works, stolen by Byron:  
>  Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!  
>  If in your bright leaves we would read the fate  
>  Of men and empires,-'tis to be forgiven,  
>  That in our aspirations to be great,  
>  Our destinies o'er leap their mortal state,  
>  And claim a kindred with you; for ye are  
>  A beauty and a mystery, and create  
>  In us such love and reverence from afar,  
>  That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.  
> 

Thomas suddenly knew what he must do, standing in the garden, face craning upwards to draw the starlight into his eyes. He turned on his heel and swept out of the garden, forgetting about James still present at the ball in his haste to return home. 


	7. Chapter 7 - That evening they danced together among the roses.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Loreena McKennitt – The Old Ways
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0SG6ZITbWpU&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNTQ9gNtW612O2qujhgHJ4yu&index=7

Once in his room and sitting at his familiar seat facing the window, candle lit, quill in hand, Thomas smoothed a fresh piece of parchment onto the desk . He paused for a moment to stare out to the midnight sky, then lowered his gaze and dipped his quill into the inkwell. His eyes slipped out of focus, seeing beyond the parchment, to a different world unfolding before his eyes. He saw himself and Elizabeth dancing in the walled garden, the image was so strong, so real. He was lost in his private world, the candlelight casting shadows on the walls that danced like he had with Elizabeth.

Hours later he sat back and dropped his quill into the inkwell, it was done. The candle was spluttering, clinging onto life but all was well, in a few more hours the sun would rise and there would be no more need of a candle for another day. He re-read and tweaked his words until they were perfect, quintessentially him, his truth, undeniable.

A small voice in his head begged him to reconsider his intention for these words, to acknowledge the truth of the situation, the gravity, the warning of danger, the consequences these words would bring. A louder voice drowned out the offender, 'but what about the walled garden?' it asked insistently, 'that meant something, to both of us.' 

He cast his gaze over his work, this poem about Elizabeth he'd composed overnight, the inspiration stemming from visiting the walled garden again yesterday. The words flowing through him, the memory of her reawakened by being back in the garden, that evening they danced together among the roses playing out endlessly in his mind.

Last night James was correct when he implied Thomas had found a muse in Elizabeth, he hadn't written anything of note since Byron had stolen his poems. Elizabeth was now his sole motivation to pick up his quill again, his reason and his inspiration. He wrote of her, as he saw her, a portrait painted by words, through the eyes of the one who loved her most.

This ode he could not keep to himself, it was never supposed to be hidden away, it must be shared, for is that not what love is? To be shouted aloud with pride. His declaration would be quieter but the act of sending it to his love was a bold and dangerous move, if Byron got hold of his letter...Thomas couldn't bear to consider the consequences. He was blinded by love, no force on earth could prevent him from sending Elizabeth his words now, harbouring the hope she would reciprocate his love.

He reasoned Elizabeth must feel the same, it could not be a fantasy of his alone, if she had truly loved Byron before meeting Thomas why did she leave the ball, and Byron's side, that night she wandered into the garden? Why did she dance with him? For they were strangers before that evening, brought together under the moonlight within the walls. They talked and they danced among the roses, then they were strangers no longer.

They were well met, that was surely undeniable, two souls out of place in their respective worlds, one trapped in an ill-matched betrothal, the other a hopeless romantic, caught in the longing for a woman promised to another man. Thomas was forever lost in his memory of the garden, every waking moment since that night, he had been haunted by the image repeating in his mind of dancing with his love, as strong as the scent of the roses that hung in the air that evening. He had been a Thorne among the roses that night. Elizabeth embodied the beauty of the roses, he felt as though he was an intruder in her world, but he could not untangle himself, their lives were entwined now. Whatever happened from this point on he knew Elizabeth would always be his rose and hold a unique place in his heart.

Both himself and Elizabeth had taken solace in the privacy and the peace of the garden that evening, finding kindred spirits in each other. Had the cruel hand of fate deigned to deal them different destinies, theirs would surely be intertwined. Thomas had no doubt, if there was any justice in the world and life could have be anything other than it was - it would be him instead of Byron, hosting parties, flaunting Elizabeth as his betrothed.

His hand hovered around the sealing candle, doubts flaring in his mind, but spluttering and fading as his writing light had done, the doubts weren't as strong as the image of her face in his mind, he was resolute. He knew he must do this, for Elizabeth. Thomas lit the sealing candle swiftly, before he changed his mind, dripping the hot wax onto the folded parchment and stamping in his seal, it was done.

His completed and sealed poem sat at his desk for a few days, he shot furtive glances in it's direction every time he was in the room. He felt as though it was demanding his attention, following him with unseen eyes. He had decided to err on the side of caution and wait to send it when Byron would be away, Thomas suspected having Elizabeth's mail monitored would not be beneath that man. He also wished Elizabeth time to study his words when she would be alone, to reflect, choosing to not marry Byron would be the best thing for her, if only Thomas could enable her to see the truth and show her he was there, he would always be there for her.

Byron had loudly boasted during the ball he would be away hunting this week, remembering this, Thomas seized the opportunity to send his poem to Elizabeth. He nervously turned the letter in his hands many times before finally sending it, but he felt in his heart he had done the right thing. He could no longer keep his love for Elizabeth a secret and he was prepared to deal with any consequences this may bring.

Thomas entrusted his letter with a younger servant, someone who wouldn't be missed from the household for the day. He was given orders to deliver it into the hands of Miss Elizabeth, but the servant was dismayed upon reaching Elizabeth's residence to be met with an obstructive footman.  
“I have a letter I am to deliver to miss Elizabeth,” Thomas' man began, wilting under the steely glare of the footman.  
“I am afraid,” the footman began, his voice dripping with contempt, as he spoke slowly, as if to a child, “miss Elizabeth is otherwise indisposed.”  
There was a heavy silence as Thomas' servant processed this unexpected hurdle, the words of his master ringing in his ears, repeating how important it was that Elizabeth should receive this letter, met with the indifference of this adversary.  
“My master intoned this letter was very important and it is imperative this should be delivered to miss Elizabeth.” Thomas' man drew himself up to his full height, not wanting to appear threatened by another servant.  
There was a pause as though the footman was deciding whether a reply would be worth his time, eventually he conceded, if nothing else but to get this stranger away from his door.  
“Very well, I will see to it that miss Elizabeth receives the correspondence as soon as she is available. Who may I say it is from?”

The question was laced with suspicion, as if the footman knew the writer wasn't someone who was entitled to write to his mistress. Thomas' man had been briefed for this, he looked the footman in the eye, hoping his determined gaze would convey the importance of the letter and quell suspicion.  
“A friend...thank you kind sir, I bid you good day.” He turned on his heel and was not half way down the steps when the door slammed shut behind him, he hoped the footman wasn't so obstructive as to refuse to pass the letter on, or master Thorne would not be happy. Leaving the grounds he shrugged off the doubt and headed for the nearest tavern, kicking his horse into a canter along the long road back into town, with the two shillings in payment from Thomas weighing heavily in his pocket. He felt as though that was a job well done and he was impatient to spend his reward.

The dour servant retreated into the house, clutching the offending letter, he was certain this was improper contact from a potential suitor, as the mail from Elizabeth's friends came on the coach, not entrusted to a servant to deliver it personally. He swept down the corridor with an air of a man who's sole purpose was to ruin the day of another, the warning given by Lord Byron himself ringing in his ears. Byron had said there may be unwarranted letters arriving for miss Elizabeth from an unsuitable contact, these letters were to be reported immediately and would be dealt with by Byron himself. The servant remembered nodding curtly in response, thankful to be included in this conspiracy and to be entrusted with the task of intercepting any unexpected letters sent by unknown couriers. 

The footman was an old man now and had been in the service of the family for all of his life, this is why Elizabeth's father made allowances for his surly nature and occasional insubordinate act. He strode into the drawing room with a confident gait, suggesting a rank higher than his status. He flourished the letter to his master, remembering his place a second before he spoke.  
“Forgive the intrusion, my lord, there has been an unknown messenger delivering this for miss Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth's father took the offered letter, not recognising the handwriting or the seal on the reverse.  
“Sir...I feel this could be improper contact. It is safe to say it is not from Lord Byron, nor do I believe it is the work of any of miss Elizabeth's lady friends.” He was sure of this statement and although Elizabeth's father was loathe to accept the wisdom of his upstart servant, he was forced to nod in agreement. 

“Sir...Lord Byron gave instruction that all letters addressed to miss Elizabeth...”  
“I know damn well what Byron said!” Elizabeth's father interjected angrily, then remembering himself, altered his tone before addressing his man again.  
“Thank you, Bute, you may go.” Elizabeth's father didn't bother to raise his gaze from the letter as he dismissed his servant, wanting peace as he considered this issue.

Bute was hesitant to leave the room as this saga was unfolding, wanting to be the one to pass the letter to Byron in person, or better still to be present as the letter was opened. What a story he would have to tell to the other household staff in the kitchen at evening meal! But he knew his place, bowing low, he backed out of the room, gently closing the door behind him and sulking back along the corridor.

Elizabeth's father sighed, his daughter always wilful, with grandiose ideas of romance and true love, when all that was required of her was a good match in marriage. He had found that for her in Lord Byron, a man of substance who appeared kind enough, Elizabeth would want for nothing as his wife. She would not openly disobey her father or go against his wishes but he felt she was less than satisfied with the match, and he was at a loss as to how to please her. He worried her mind was fixated on the fairy tales of her childhood, princesses saved by dashing princes and happily ever afters. Stories, mere fantasies that children needed to grow out of and instead learn to live in the real world, where a good marriage meant the difference between living comfortably and poverty. He had provided a happily ever after for her, at Byron's side. Thanks to her father she would have riches, status, power. Everything a woman could wish for. It would be enough. It had to be.


	8. Chapter 8 - "She walks in beauty, like the night."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Brunuhville – The Wolf & The Moon
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wj9jkVQS-No&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNTQ9gNtW612O2qujhgHJ4yu&index=8

Elizabeth's father was reluctant to interfere in her private affairs but knew he must, if this letter was inappropriate the sender must be dealt with, swiftly and quietly to avoid any scandal for his daughter. He carefully peeled open the seal and unfolded the parchment, turning the page towards the window to capture the best light, he began to read and his heart sank with every line.

>   
>  “She walks in beauty, like the night  
>  Of cloudless climes and starry skies;  
>  And all that’s best of dark and bright  
>  Meet in her aspect and her eyes;  
>  Thus mellowed to that tender light  
>  Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
> 
> One shade the more, one ray the less,  
>  Had half impaired the nameless grace  
>  Which waves in every raven tress,  
>  Or softly lightens o’er her face;  
>  Where thoughts serenely sweet express,  
>  How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
> 
> And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,  
>  So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,  
>  The smiles that win, the tints that glow,  
>  But tell of days in goodness spent,  
>  A mind at peace with all below,  
>  A heart whose love is innocent!”  
> 

The poem was signed as Thomas Thorne, accompanied by a sketch of a rose. This was all the information Elizabeth's father required, Byron had previously warned him of a usurper named Thorne who had designs on Elizabeth, this was undeniable proof of that suspicion. Byron had offered to deal with Thorne previously but Elizabeth's father had managed to hold him back, no need to resort to extreme measures without proof. He shook his head sadly, this Thorne may have just knotted his own noose, there were witnesses now, there would have to be consequences. He had so far avoided speculating on the action Byron would take, now he had no choice but to write to Byron with this news.

It was said that walls have ears in large houses. Idle gossip echoes down the corridors, carried by the staff, even the most experienced and trustworthy servants were guilty of the occasional conversation concerning their masters. It was human nature, the staff were always present, listening, gossiping with staff from other houses, news travelled faster through the town when passed between people than on a mail coach. Elizabeth's father trusted and relied upon Bute with the day to day running of the household, the menial jobs such as answering the door and waiting on the family. He was no fool though, he understood Bute would possess ambitions beyond his station, dreams of status and riches despite his place in society. This was something most aristocrats failed to realise, servants need to be treated with respect and compassion, they held more power than one would expect. They were always around the family, knowing how they took their tea and their darkest secrets, watching family dramas unfold, absorbing information. Mistreatment from the master of the house wouldn't ensure a held tongue in the taverns.

Elizabeth's father was afraid of this, for his daughter to be the subject of gossip, her marriage to Byron jeopardised, her future hanging by a thread, because of this Thorne? It couldn't be allowed. Elizabeth's father must do what he must in order to protect his family, at whatever cost, sacrifices must be made.

He rang the bell on the table next to him and less than a moment later Bute entered the room, a smug smile on his features, “my lord?”  
“Fetch me my fastest rider, he is to be dispatched immediately with an urgent letter.”  
“Of course, my lord.” Bute could barely contain his grin as he bowed out of the room and marched purposefully out to the stables. He knew Jamie Winton the stable hand would be tending the horses and could be entrusted with this task. More importantly, he could be relied upon to depart with any gossip he gained, in return for a bowl of Mrs Conroy's stew this evening. He made a mental note to call in to the kitchen after Jamie had been dispatched, to ensure there was ample stew cooking. Also to undertake an important job in updating the other staff while he was there, he knew Mrs Conroy would be eager to hear of the latest news. He hoped she would be grateful enough to partake in a spot of baking, which she would no doubt share with her fellow staff.

Elizabeth's father strode to his desk and pulled out fresh parchment, uncovering the ink pot and brandishing his quill, he contemplated his words for a moment. He was painfully aware a man's happiness was at stake – but then again, so was his daughter's – there was no question with whom his loyalty lay. He wrote a short note explaining the situation, laying down the facts, mentioning the letter in an offhand manner, hoping Byron would not over-react. Thorne had to be warned away from Elizabeth, best case scenario Byron would take him aside alone, with a strong word in his ear and that would be the end of the matter. Whatever designs Thorne had on Elizabeth undoubtedly must be immediately quashed. But it was with heavy heart he handed Jamie the letter penned by Thorne, together with his note and told his man to ride as fast as he was able to Byron's home.

At Byron's manor the man himself was in the drawing room, his foot propped up on a stool and a scowl etched on his face, he was forced to forgo his hunting trip after he'd dismounted heavily from his horse a few days past and injured his foot. He was furious about missing the hunting expedition and being forced to stay at home, with doctor's orders to rest. He did feel a glimmer of gratitude there was no serious damage and he would be back to business as usual soon.

A servant knocked at the door, a brave move as the staff had been warned the master was not to be disturbed. Byron's mood darker than usual, servants habitually received an ear bashing or an actual bashing by getting too close when his temper flared like this. He grudgingly barked the command to enter and the servant nervously edged into the room, noted Byron's thunderous glare and considered retreating to the relative safety of the corridor. He thought better of it as he was already in the room and he would certainly incur his master's wrath by remaining silent, instead he cleared his throat, “your lordship...”

Byron's glare intensified, annoyed at his servant's hesitation, who felt the full force of his master's displeasure and struggled to retain his composure under the powerful stare. He hung in head in contrite respect.

“What is it damn you?”  
“Begging your pardon, a letter for you Lord Byron sir.”

Byron scowled, he could make this weasel curtsy for him if he so wished, but right now his curiosity was piqued, he fought to control his anger, sensing important information about to be imparted.

“There has been a messenger, from the household of miss Elizabeth.”  
“Well hand it over, man!”

The servant hurried forward, stumbling in his haste to hand Byron the letters before he became consumed with anger. His master looked as though he would lurch out of the chair and cause him a great deal of pain, he hurriedly handed over the letters, desperate to placate the volatile Byron.

“The letters, my lord.”

Byron snatched them both, “two?” he muttered, the servant frozen, unsure if he could safely leave the room. The smaller note was ripped open first, Byron recognising the hand of Elizabeth's father, engrossed in this correspondence, his servant momentarily forgotten. He scanned the lines of the first letter, his frown deepening with every word he read. 

“THE CAD!” Byron suddenly shouted, his servant startled and the intensity of the shout caused a maid to drop a plate in the kitchen, thankfully Byron didn't hear the smash, so preoccupied was he over the contents of the note.

He threw it to the floor and grasped the larger letter, staring first at Elizabeth's name, then at the broken seal on the reverse. He warily unfolded the letter and read hurriedly, with the air of a man who resented every word, but also could not tear his eyes away and so was reading as fast as possible to get it over with quickly.

A wave of angry confusion washed over him, consuming him as he skimmed over Thomas' words, knowing instinctively they belonged to his rival before reading the signature. He would know Thorne's poetry anywhere, having previously stolen his work and passed it off as his own, this was Thorne's revenge. His words to use against Byron, to hurt him for being betrothed to Elizabeth.

“Leave me...” his tone much softer now, almost regretful, “send orders, I am not to be disturbed until dinner.”  
“Yes my lord.” The servant bowed from the room as fast as respectfully possible, grateful to have a door between them now, he exhaled deeply. Whatever news his master had received it wasn't good and therefore did not bode well for whomever it concerned. The staff of Byron's household would also suffer until the matter was dealt with, the servant hurried away to warn his colleagues.

Byron stared at the poem in his hands for a long time, unwilling to re-read the words Thomas had written for Elizabeth. His Elizabeth. The words undeniably beautiful and heartfelt, written with a talent Byron could not hope to possess. He hated Thomas, but also envied him, if only he had the same skill with words as Thorne, he could write Elizabeth beautiful poetry. Perhaps then she would be warmer towards him, more receptive to his advances. He wished for a willing wife after all and was terrified Elizabeth didn't love him, he worried her head could be turned and her heart won by Thorne. A man who had all the right words, the charm. If Thomas was indeed in love with Elizabeth – as this poem suggested – Byron would be made a fool of eventually, he was sure of it. 

The sorrow was swiftly giving way to anger once again, he could feel it rising in his chest, bringing with it a curtain of mist in his eyes, blood rushing in his ears, distorting his thinking. He mulled over his options moving forwards with this knowledge and attempted to be reasonable and balanced in his thinking. But all that was running through his mind was the thought of his happy marriage to Elizabeth being torn away from him, his plans for the future ripped apart by Thorne. The usurper had to be stopped. He took a deep breath, preparing the plan that was rushing to form itself in his mind.


	9. Chapter 9 - "I'll never stop looking...you'll never stop running."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Two Steps From Hell - Evergreen
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fZ1y_Z6Bc0M&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNTQ9gNtW612O2qujhgHJ4yu&index=9

The letters from Thomas and Elizabeth's father still lay in Byron's drawing room a week later, both thrown carelessly on the side table, picked up at regular intervals, re-read for anything Byron could have missed, then thrown back to the table in disgust. His foot was fully recovered now but his pride was not, he had spent too much time dwelling on this situation while waiting for his foot to be healed. He felt he had considered every option, running through all eventualities in his mind, playing out scenarios in his head to gauge the effectiveness of his proposed plans. At times he felt clarity, a clear sense of what he should do, convinced an idea would work. Other times there were lone tendrils of thoughts whisking around his brain, as if they were leaves blown in the wind, not substantial enough be seen clearly or form a coherent plan. They alluded him as if will-o'-the-wisps, leading him through the mire of his tangled thoughts, he could never be sure if away from or towards danger.

Byron could no longer concentrate on anything or sit still for long, in this past week there had been endless thoughts racing through his brain, running alongside and tumbling over lines of Thomas' poem, his incoherent thoughts intertwining with Thomas' eloquent words, like ivy twisting around the stem of a rose. 

'Thorne is refusing to heed the warning to stay away from my Elizabeth.'

>   
>  she walks in beauty, like the night.  
> 

'He's writing her letters now, poems to woo her.'

>   
>  All that's best of dark and bright, meet in her aspect and her eyes.  
> 

'He knows Elizabeth is mine and yet still believes he is a runner in a contest for her heart.'

>   
>  Where thoughts serenely sweet express, how pure, how dear their dwelling place.  
> 

'He's becoming a problem.'

>   
>  So soft, so calm, yet eloquent.  
> 

'This cannot be allowed to continue.'

>   
>  'The smiles that win, the tints that glow.  
> 

'He must be stopped.'

>   
>  But tell of days in goodness spent.  
> 

'He must be stopped.'

>   
>  A mind at peace with all below.  
> 

'He must be stopped.'

>   
>  A heart who's love is innocent!  
> 

It's time to remove this Thorne, Byron mused, before he sinks too deep under the skin. Elizabeth and I are as perfect as a fragrant rose garden of soon-to-be wedded bliss, Thomas is the Thorne among the roses. Byron gave a wry smile, that was the most poetic thing he'd ever thought of and it was entirely his own, he didn't have to steal Thorne's words this time.

He was confident he could recount the poem in it's entirety by now, perhaps he would recite it for Elizabeth and claim the words as his own. He needed to ensure her love belonged to him and him alone, if he could distract her with those words maybe she would forget Thomas all together. He just needed to remove Thomas from the picture now.

Still seething, he paced around the house like a caged animal, he shouted for his men to hurry up and fetch the horses around to the front door. His plan was being set into motion, fuelled by his rage rather than his rational thoughts, there was no stopping this, no pausing for consideration. He was allowing himself to be carried on the tide of his resentment, not caring how this day ended, only that it did end with a resolution to his problem. Byron stormed into his study and unlocked a cabinet, carefully retrieving a gilded wooden box, he locked the cabinet again, and turned to leave. He caught sight of the letter lying on the table, scowled at it and swept out of the room with a palpable menace.

He shouted at his servants to get out of his way, to open the front door for him, and for his horsemen to mount, as they stood nervously holding the three horses they'd been barked at to tack up.   
Byron tucked the wooden box carefully into his saddlebag and patted his riding jacket over his pocket, seemingly soothed by the pistol sized lump he encountered. All three men swung up into their respective saddles, the two servants nervously glanced at their lord and master, waiting for instructions.

Byron bridged his reins, brooding before speaking without a trace of his recent anger. He was calm now, his thoughts clear, he was ready. “The box in my saddlebag will play an important part today. when the time comes, I will click my fingers and one of you will fetch it to me. Anything I instruct you to do today you must immediately follow my orders, without hesitation. Whatever consequences there will be, I will deal with afterwards. Did you both conceal the pistols I asked you to?”  
“Yes sir.”  
They chorused uneasily, not daring to look at each other, still wondering why they were being instructed to hide loaded pistols about their person and what this day would bring.  
“Good. Let us ride out.”  
Byron checked his girth and reins for the final time and one of his men felt obliged to speak up.  
“Where to sir?”  
“Why,” Byron replied, with an evil smile, “to the Thorne residence, of course.”  
He turned his horse down the drive, with a sharp dig of his heels he picked up speed and broke into a canter once out of the gates and onto the road, with his servants following close behind.

They rode at a rolling canter, speed without haste and Byron enjoyed the feeling of freedom riding always brought him, easily travelling through the familiar landscape as if this was another leisurely hack. Even his men relaxed and enjoyed the ride, it was difficult not to, despite the dullness of the day, especially when they were unaware of the plan unfolding in Byron's head. Their concealed pistols forgotten as they kept pace along the lanes and through the meadows, still in high spirits as they slowed to a trot on approaching the home of the Thorne family. All three men dismounted and Byron strode to the door to ask after the young Thorne, after a brief discussion with the footman he swept back to his men, instructing them to mount up and follow him. The footman had informed him Thomas was riding in the back fields of the estate and they were to find him there if their business was important. 'Oh yes', Byron thought as he wheeled his horse around and kicked hard into a canter, 'my business with Thorne cannot wait, I will have retribution this day.'

“Thorne!” Thomas turned in the saddle, startled at the shout of his name breaking the tranquillity of his afternoon hack. Behind him were a trio of riders cantering purposefully towards him, he recognised the figure in the middle after a moment of squinting through the haze and his heart sank. There was a slight mist rolling across the fields on this dull grey afternoon and the figures appeared to him as though a mirage, slowly coming into focus. He hoped he was dreaming, but in his heart he knew this was real, he sighed in resignation as he guided with a leg to turn his mount's shoulder around to face his unwelcome visitors. His heartbeat quickening by the second, thoughts racing, he was painfully aware he was too far away from the house and assistance, should he require it. He was outnumbered, unarmed and riding a horse who was recovering from knocked legs while steeple chasing.

He forced himself to relax his grip on the reins, allowing the slack to fall against his horse's neck, he rested one hand over the pommel and slouched in the saddle, in an attempt to appear as non-threatening to these men as possible. The three riders pulled up suddenly ten paces from Thomas, they clumsily hauled on the reins to bring their mounts to a standstill, the horses sweating and blowing heavily from exhaustion.

“Lord Byron, to what do I owe this pleasure?” Thomas enquired, as mildly as he could, but his heart was beating swifter now than had he been galloping at full speed across the fields. Byron scowled at him, dismounting clumsily in his anger, “you know damn well why I'm here Thorne!” He glared at up at Thomas as his men followed his lead and dismounted, albeit smoother than Byron had. They stood menacingly behind Byron's shoulders as he raised a hand and clicked his fingers impatiently. “We're going to settle this once and for all.” One of his men reached into the saddlebag and produced the wooden box, inlaid with ornate patterns, it was obviously heavy and valuable from the way the man was handling it. 

Thomas glanced at it but dragged his gaze back to meet Byron's, who didn't take his eyes away from Thomas as he threw out his arms to the sides dramatically. “Right here, on your own land. Now.” He balled his fists then pointed the index fingers of both hands at the ground before lowering his arms, “it's your choice again Thorne, it always was. You had the option to walk away that night at my ball, you were warned, if you had left Elizabeth alone that would have been the end of it. We wouldn't have been forced to ride up here today, in this godforsaken weather.” He tilted his head towards the sky and felt the damp air on his face, displeased and yet refreshed by it, he looked back at Thomas, the glare again etched on his face. “It was always your choice Thorne, you must see that...this is all because of you...and now you have to pay the price.” He lowered his voice, “one final decision is yours to make, you can dismount and face me like a gentleman, or you can run away like a coward. But know this Thorne,” Byron almost shouted. The sound of his voice travelling swiftly over the fields, echoing in the density of the mist, somehow amplified and suspended in the space between them. “Should you choose to run today, I'll hunt you down like the dog you are. If you hide, I'll find you. I'll never stop looking...you'll never stop running, like a common criminal.”

Byron paused as Thomas pulled his feet from his stirrups and gracefully lowered himself to the ground, he stepped forward a few paces, taking deep breaths to steady his nerves before he spoke. “Rest assured sir, I have no intention of running. Although if you had called at the house and waited for me there, I would have made you quite welcome.” he raised his eyes and scanned the panorama of the horizon, “surely this is no place for gentlemen to meet.” Thomas addressed the skyline before glancing back at Byron, “there'll be a fire lit in the drawing room and as many refreshments as you and your men can stomach. We could have talked to your heart's content and you could leave satisfied.”

Byron suddenly lurched forward as if intending to strike Thomas, but he restrained himself, “You know damn well the time for talking has passed. You always did think you were above your station, with your smooth words. Elizabeth may have succumbed to your honeyed tongue, but I will not...man to man, here and now, you'll pay for what you've done.” Byron unclasped his riding cloak with one hand and pulled it from around his neck, he held it out for his servant to step forward and grasp, then immediately fall back into place behind Byron. He held his opposite hand out for his other lackey to hand him the wooden box, finally breaking his suspicious eye contact from Thomas, as if Byron believed he would suddenly disappear if he took his steely grey gaze from Thomas. 

Byron turned his head halfway, not bothering to look his servant in the face as he addressed him, “hold the horses,” his softly spoken command was almost gentle and seemed out of character from the aggression he had shown so far during this encounter. The underling nodded curtly, although no-one noticed the gesture, he strode over to Thomas' horse and pulled the reins over his head to lead him to Byron's horse where he held the reins in the same way. His counterpart proceeded to do the same with the other two horses, they both led all four to a point thirty paces away, gripping the reins of all horses tightly although they were all relaxed and offered no resistance at this point.


	10. Chapter 10 - Stars sparkled overhead as he danced with her in the falling darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Doctor Who Series 2 Soundtrack – Madame De Pompadour's Theme
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h0uUrZOo8pQ&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNTQ9gNtW612O2qujhgHJ4yu&index=10

Thomas was suspicious, he had guessed why Byron was here, how angry he must be and that he'd want to punish Thomas for the latest evening he had spent in Elizabeth's company, despite the clear warnings from Byron and friends to stay away from her. Thomas drew himself up to his full height, he would not, could not, apologize for his actions, for never would he change a moment spent in Elizabeth's company. His resolve had strengthened with the thought of her, his heart racing and adrenaline coursing through his veins, he believed he knew now what was in the box.

Byron removed his riding gloves, slowly and deliberately pulling off one finger at a time while scowling at Thomas, he threw his gloves to the ground absently. “I'm a fair man, an honest, honourable and upstanding man, as all others will gladly tell you. That being said, do you have anything you would care to say to me?”

Thomas decided upon honesty, frank and simple, but he couldn't help but speak with an over-familiarity towards Elizabeth he knew he wasn't entitled to, for the satisfaction it would give him to rankle Byron. “I could not have stayed away from Beth if I had wanted to, there was something drawing me towards her, keeping me in her orbit. I could not control it, I am sorry you don't approve, Lord Byron, but that is the way it is.” Thomas looked down and smoothed the front of his waistcoat, comforted by the fine silk but unsure of his words once they had been spoken. He felt them strongly and knew they were the right ones to use, but he knew Byron couldn't understand his point of view, blinded by his hatred and his wounded pride.

Byron was angered by Thomas' answer, “HER NAME, IS ELIZABETH!” he roared, to which Thomas raised his eyes and calmly met Byron's hardened glare again. “I know her, Lord Byron, and I know she does not like to be addressed by her full name. She has told me she prefers her friends to address her as Beth.”

There was a tense silence that hung between them as dense as the mist, Thomas fought to keep the smirk from his face as they sized each other up. Thomas had used a white lie to hurt Byron, waiting for his adversary to make a move. Byron was lost in this battle of wits, struggling to find a retort, his thought process drowned out by his rage, he had expected Thomas to show contrition and beg for mercy. Byron wrenched open the box, there was a glint in his eyes as he beheld the contents fondly, which were, as Thomas feared, pistols. Inlaid with gold and intricate patterns, resting on a bed of the finest crimson velvet. Byron looked back at Thomas and caught him glancing, repulsed, at the pistols. “Oh yes Thorne, I brought my finest for you today. I felt it was only fair, given the situation, since you regard yourself as somewhat of an equal as Elizabeth's suitor. It is only fair that I can now prove how wrong you are.”

“You don't have to do this, Lord Byron, there are other ways to settle this dispute.” Thomas fought to keep his voice even, but it cracked in fear, Byron noticed and his grin widened. He thrust the open box towards Thomas, “choose your weapon.”

When Thomas made no move to select a pistol the smile faded from Byron's face, his voice like gravel, scraping against Thomas' frayed nerves, “remember Thorne, we're doing this like gentlemen. I'm giving you every opportunity to prove yourself but my patience is wearing thin. Choose your weapon and prepare or I'll make the choice for you, there's nothing but my honour as a gentleman, stopping me from shooting you right now. For your disrespect of your station, your unwelcome advances towards my betrothed. Prove yourself to be a man and face me in a duel, or die a coward.”

His sly grin returned as Thomas reached out a surprisingly steady hand, fingers closing around the cold steel of the pistol's grip. It felt much heavier than the pistols he'd used in the past, the vague thought crossed his mind that Byron had modified it somehow, but he dismissed this due to how clumsy and heavy his arms suddenly felt. Byron dropped the box carelessly to the grass, brandishing his own pistol, checking it and waiting for Thomas to do the same. Thomas eventually commanded his arms and fingers to perform the necessary manoeuvres , still feeling as though it was a world away from anything he had done before. The voice of his father ringing in his ears as he had explained to Thomas as a young man how to handle a pistol, how to load, how to aim, how to fire. It was an adventure when they were aiming at paper targets on bales of hay. But not now, it was no longer a game, there was something about the mortal danger he was now facing that was slowing down his thought process considerably. He felt his doom encroaching, creeping up and closing in around him. His breath caught in his throat but he forced himself to breathe slowly, deliberately counting the seconds breathing in and out, lungfuls of the crisp air to bring him back into the moment. 

Once the pistols had been checked and primed, Thomas again met Byron's intense stare, knowing all this time that to reason with, or beg a man like Byron would only have a detrimental effect. He accepted his fate reluctantly, not wanting to go through with this but knowing he did not have a choice. He did not regret the series of events that had led to this afternoon, standing in his field, holding a loaded pistol, staring down a man who wanted him dead and may just get his wish today. He would never apologize for his feelings towards Elizabeth, or for any second that they had spent together. Somewhere in his heart he had always known this day was inevitable, ever since he first met Elizabeth and had asked James about her, had he not warned Thomas then about the dangers of being around her? But Thomas had ignored him, he was willing, even then, to accept any and all consequences of being with her. She was worth all of this.

“Come now, Thorne, you must know how this is done,” Byron mocked him as Thomas was brought crashing back to the present, they turned their backs to one another, guns held pointing skywards. A sky Thomas glanced towards and hoped with all his heart that he would see again after today, another sunrise, another sunset, to see the sun's rays illuminating Elizabeth's beautiful face.

The call came from one of Byron's underlings after a nod from his master, “gentlemen... take your paces, twenty steps forward, turn and take your shot.” Thomas felt the air grow colder against his back as Byron confidently stepped forward, he forced himself to do the same, counting his steps and gripping the pistol tightly as images of Elizabeth danced in his vision.

Eighteen steps, nineteen, twenty. He stopped abruptly and spun around as quickly as he was able to, but Byron was quicker, an expert gunman, swordsman, huntsman. Byron was all of the things Thomas was not, while he was in his room writing poetry and dreaming of his dear Elizabeth, Byron was partaking in bloodsports, it was all good practice for this moment.

That's why he had aimed and fired before Thomas had been able to pull his gun down towards Byron's level, Thomas saw the triumphant glint in Byron's eyes as he pulled the trigger, unable to move his own hand any quicker. He watched, horrified, as if in slow motion until he felt a searing pain to the left of his ribs.

The crack of the gunshot ricocheted among the nearby trees, Byron's men fighting to keep the horses under control, they had panicked at the sudden noise, rearing up, eyes wide and nostrils flaring in surprise.

Thomas stood, dumbstruck, saw Byron lower his gun and watch eagerly as Thomas suddenly felt as though he must have pulled a muscle while riding, he felt the pain but could not comprehend what was happening. It was as though he was spectating on someone else's life, watching someone else take a bullet, it couldn't be him, he had too much to live for. The pain was a dull ache compared to the roaring, screaming in his ears, he couldn't focus, couldn't understand what was happening here and now. All Thomas could see was Elizabeth in front of him as they danced, the image of her swayed and blurred as though all of the candles in the ballroom were flickering and stuttering at once. He blinked repeatedly in surprise, feeling water on his face and vaguely wondering why the sky had chosen to open now, when - if anything, it looked as though the mist was finally clearing and the sky brightening. 

Thomas hadn't felt himself move and yet he found himself looking up at Byron who walked towards him, he slowly started to feel the damp grass against his knees and wondered when he had sunk down, also why he was suddenly so cold.

Byron reached him, the smile had fallen from his face now, he retrieved the pistol from Thomas' loose grasp, “you should have walked away while you had the chance, Thorne.” He regarded Thomas almost regretfully, who was swaying, his eyes unfocused. “You're lucky I wasn't aiming for your heart, I could have easily killed you had I wanted to...As long as you stay away from my Elizabeth you won't be seeing me or my men again. You and I are even now.”

He took one last pitying look at Thomas, turned on his heel and swept back towards his men, picking up and pulling on his gloves on the way. His men returned the pistols back to their box and then to the saddlebag before Byron mounted his still spooked horse. Thomas' horse was let loose as the men mounted hastily and all kicked their horses into an uneasy gallop, heading back across the fields the way they approached, they were all relived to be leaving the scene.

Thomas caught sight of them retreating as he swayed, nausea washing over him, he fell onto his side, loosing consciousness. He opened his eyes seconds later, using his depleting strength to roll onto his back, to look up at the sky. Confused and groggy, struggling to stay awake, he tried to call for James, believing he had fallen from his horse again as he had done all those years ago. The call stuck in his throat as a bubble of blood burst between his lips and trickled down the side of his mouth. 'Strange', he thought, 'my calf feels fine' although he realised his ribs did not. He slowly lifted his left hand to gently touch the source of the pain and realised with a sickening jolt that his fingers were wet, and it was a hot, viscous wetness.

Thomas raised his arm in front of his face slowly, straining with the effort, he could barely make out the crimson stain on his fingertips but he realised, through the fog in his brain, what it meant. 'I don't think I can make it home this time, James', he wanted to shout but even the thought was quiet in his head, silence now pushing in all around him. He finally realised James wasn't there to pick him up off the damp grass this time, his mind was replaying a memory from years ago. Back then it had been kids' games, now he was an adult he had made much bigger mistakes and it had been far more dangerous. The image of Elizabeth floated into his mind again, she was the only thing that seemed clear now. He looked up to the sky again, the slate grey of the afternoon was lost to Thomas, all he could see now were the stars sparkling in the darkness.

He saw the sky as it had been on the evening he fist met Elizabeth, felt her warmth next to him as they walked through the garden, arm in arm. He heard her laugh as they talked and felt happiness radiating from her as they danced in the gathering gloom amongst the flowers. He managed to pull his mouth into a pained smile as he remembered the way she had looked into his eyes that night. She had enjoyed his company, that was worth a billion stars in the night sky, he would have reached up and taken them all down for her, for one more evening, one more dance.

He pressed his palm into his ribs in a vain attempt to prevent his life from flowing out of him and seeping into the already saturated grass, they could have been so much more, he lamented. He would have taken her riding every afternoon and they would have danced every evening until they both passed away peacefully of old age, in each others' arms. That's what she deserves, more than a man like Byron, she deserves to dance.

He barely possessed the energy to think this thought, much less than to scream it out loud into the field for the breeze to carry to her. He loved her. He would die for her, luckily for him this was looking like the most likely outcome. He was suddenly overcome with sadness and regret, realising he would never again dance with her, would never be able to talk to her, never know the outcome of his letter. He felt even his poem did not adequately explain his deep and unending love. 'She does not comprehend the profundity of my feelings for her,' he thought, for how could she? Even he did not fully understand how he could feel so strongly after a painfully short time spent in her company. His passion was all consuming, proven by his current predicament, his love so strong it had led to him lying in a field, dying for her.

Thomas, the poet, the dreamer, closed his eyes against the pain, the darkness rushing in to claim him. Before the lights flickered out in his brain he had one final sequence playing in his mind, as clear as though it were a memory of yesterday, bittersweet. He was galloping across the moors again to reach Elizabeth and then finally, mercifully, he was in the walled garden with her. The stars sparkled overhead as he danced with her in the falling darkness. They stepped slowly around in circles on the path, leaning into each other as close as they were able, no words passed between them, it wasn't necessary. Thomas and Elizabeth were united by a stronger bond, they were the main characters in the oldest story in existence. They were the chorus of a song that played throughout the centuries of humanity, echoing around the walled garden. A song from before words had been invented, before time itself. There was always this unstoppable force running throughout the universe and where there is an unstoppable force, objects must move out of the way. 

Thomas lay on the grass, staring unseeing at the sky and realised this was him moving out of the way. He was bowing out of the play before the final curtain, Elizabeth remained on stage, this was her story now. Hers alone, as she stood in the spotlight with every expectant eye turned upon her. The spectators in the audience, the stars in the sky, watched, waited. Thomas' destiny had been foretold and his fate sealed that night he danced with Elizabeth, this was unavoidable, this was the sacrifice that had to be made for the show to continue. Him. He must give his life, here and now to pay for his actions in the walled garden. Thomas felt as though he had cheated the universe, he had been dealt an impossibly good hand, he would gladly give his life for the moments he spent with Elizabeth. 

It no longer mattered, he wasn't dying in the field now, he was with Elizabeth in the walled garden. They could have been dancing for a hundred years, never needing more than to be in each other's arms. The garden long abandoned, the roses growing out across the path and entwining them, reaching up and around them, encasing them within the garden forever. Thomas and Elizabeth becoming ghosts in time. The stars slowly flickered out of existence overhead but neither of them noticed as the darkness intensified, throwing them into complete shadow as they danced on and on into the endless night.


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening:
> 
> Within Temptation - Memories
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gsQIOgkZt68&list=PLrcXkBsBsjNTQ9gNtW612O2qujhgHJ4yu&index=11

Elizabeth called on Lord Byron, she hadn't seen him for a couple of weeks since his last ball and wanted to check on the injury he sustained that prevented him from travelling for the hunt. She felt it was her duty as they would soon be married, although she realised now, she felt no affection for him. When she remembered the balls Byron had thrown in her honour, her most persistent memory of those nights, by far, was meeting Thomas, dancing with him. He was a better dancer than Byron, more attentive, there was a gentleness in Thomas that bordered on reverence. When she was with Byron she felt as though he tolerated her, marrying her was his duty, not what his heart called for. 

She was lost in her memories and started when the door suddenly opened, revealing a surprised butler, of all the people he expected to be on the doorstep today, miss Elizabeth was not one of them. It was a moment before he regained his composure, remembered his station, bowed low and invited her inside.  
“I am afraid mistress has called at an unfortunate time, the master of the house is not present at the moment.”  
“Not present?” Elizabeth repeated back.  
“I am afraid not mistress, he left not long ago with the horses...” He had hoped this would be the end of the matter and Elizabeth would take the hint and leave, unfortunately Elizabeth was much more persistent. “Where, pray tell, has he gone?”

The butler fought to stifle a sigh before he replied, “I am afraid I do not know mistress, he is not usually gone riding longer than a few hours, but I was not informed of when he will return, having received no specific instructions from the master himself.”

Elizabeth was disappointed, but also partly relieved at not having to talk with Byron, she was however, hot and thirsty from her ride. “Very well, if I may impose on your hospitality a while, the ride over here was hot and I would require a drink of water before I can continue on my journey.” 

“Of course mistress, please...” The butler led her into the drawing room and instructed her to make herself comfortable and take as long as she needed in the comfort of the house, while he fetched a drink from the kitchens. Elizabeth thanked him and cast a curious glance around the room, taking the opportunity to learn of Byron's tastes and the objects he surrounded himself with, while she was unobserved. You could learn a lot from a man by how he chose to decorate his drawing room, and the correspondence he left on a side table. Elizabeth's gaze fell on the letter lying conspicuous on the table, it had clearly been balled tightly and smoothed out again, her conscious could not dissuade her from sweeping across the room and picking it up to read. She wondered who had been writing to Byron that would cause him to crumple the letter, but also keep it.

Her question was answered immediately although it was much worse news than she had been expecting and found she must sit down immediately as the truth of the words rushed out from the parchment and hit her as a chilly December wind.

The first thing she noticed was the letter had been addressed to her.

The second thing was the poem it contained.

The third was the signature at the bottom.

She barely had time to take in this unwanted knowledge, it seemed to chill her to the bone, the uncomfortable feeling of an icy touch gripping her by the shoulders. She felt a rush of blood to her head, roaring in her ears, she was expecting to read a trivial note about Byron's business dealings, a meeting postponed, his writing rejected. Not this. She could never have prepared herself for this. The room around her seemed to disappear, fade into the background as she struggled to comprehend what she was reading. Byron had somehow intercepted her mail, a letter addressed to her, intended for her sole attention, the anger was boiling inside her, how dare he!

As she scanned the lines it all became apparent, she had suspected the poem Byron had sent her had not been penned by his own hand, she had not found him as eloquent as would be expected to write words of such beauty. 

> She walks in beauty, like the night  
>  Of cloudless climes and starry skies.

Elizabeth assumed, cruelly she thought at the time, he had paid someone to write the poem on his behalf. She now wished that had indeed been the case, the truth that was now slowly and horribly dawning upon her was much, much worse.

> And all that’s best of dark and bright  
>  Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

She was so familiar with the words, having repeated them again and again since Byron had sent her the poem, she loved it and was deeply honoured to think someone had written those beautiful words for her. 

> Thus mellowed to that tender light  
>  Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

The letter was signed as Thomas Thorne, written in beautifully looping calligraphy, accompanied by a small sketch of a rose.

Thomas.

Thomas had written that poem for her.

He had written her a beautiful poem that screamed of love, in a letter that had been intercepted by Byron.

She gripped the letter tightly in her fist as she tore from the room, slamming the front door closed behind her and rushing to her horse, mounting clumsily with the rising anger for Byron and panic for Thomas. She kicked off and rode with the ferocity of a highwayman attempting to escape the thief-takers. She could not have ridden faster if the hounds of hell themselves had been at her horse's heels.

Her seat was ungainly, her appearance becoming undignified as she squinted through the tears building behind her eyes. The poem – those beautiful words – they were from Thomas' quill, his mind, his heart. She felt his anguish and knew what she had so far refused to consider, what she had always known but could not dedicate her thoughts to.

Thomas was in love with her. 

This poem was his way of expressing his feelings. To what end? She could not help but assume he harboured dreams of her running away with him, Elizabeth was forced to grip the reins tighter and dig her heels in more forcefully to her horse's sides as she was hit by the realisation she had so far ignored. That was exactly what she wanted. She would run away with Thomas and find happiness with him that would be forever elusive if she stayed and married Byron. She didn't love Byron, she couldn't, especially after this betrayal.

She loved Thomas.

If Byron hadn't intercepted the letter she would, of course, have been taken aback by Thomas' forwardness in writing to her, in writing this for her. But there was no doubt in her mind what actions she would take. She was risking everything for Thomas and she knew with the entirety of her being she would regret nothing, her heart exclusively and fully belonged to Thomas, it always had. Since that first night in the walled garden when they met, when they danced in the peaceful serenity of the moonlight. She had loved him since, she would love him forever more. 

She needed to reach him, the hoof beats of her horse thundering down the road that led to his house. Elizabeth knew instinctively, as soon as she read the letter, where Byron was, what his intentions were. On handling the letter, she felt the anger that had caused Byron to crush the parchment into a ball, the flicker of an idea that would have followed. A way out for him, to use Thomas' words for his own end, he would have known how receptive she would be to the words Thomas wrote with so much love. How dare Byron lead her to believe they were his own. She knew Byron well enough to be sure he wouldn't allow Thomas to contact Elizabeth again. Byron would silence him to prevent Elizabeth from finding out the poem represented Thomas' love, not his own. She needed to stop Byron before it was too late, she needed to find Thomas. Elizabeth fought back the anguished scream that dwelled within her chest as she threw her entire being into urging her flagging horse onwards, onwards. 

Her mind was racing with this new, terrible knowledge, her only sure course of action was that she needed to move fast – faster than the speed at which she was currently travelling, faster than she would ever be capable of moving on a mortal plane. She wanted to cry out against the futility of it all, the world around her seemed to have slowed purposefully to impede her progress, she felt trapped, helpless, but she would never give up, knowing Thomas was in danger.

Elizabeth clattered up to Thomas' residence, throwing herself from her horse, attempting to ignore the dishevelled picture she must appear to household staff. She pummelled on the door, almost falling into the hallway as it was finally wrenched open. “Thomas...” she panted, “where is Thomas?” The butler was dumbstruck by her unorthodox appearance, her stuttering question. Many frustrating seconds ticked by before he found his voice to answer, “he's riding out in the fields behind the house...miss...can I call a groom to accompany you?” Elizabeth didn't hear his kind offer as she ran back to her horse and swung him around before she had properly mounted. The butler was left standing in the doorway, staring open-mouthed at her swiftly departing figure as Thomas' father appeared in the hallway behind him. “What was all that infernal banging?”

“My lord, it was a lady in a state of distress, enquiring after master Thomas.”  
Thomas' father snorted dismissively, “that's the second impassioned visitor the boy's had today, what's he been up to now?” They both gazed out at the empty drive before Thomas' father barked at his servant. “Close the door, man! People will think I'm running an unruly house.”

Elizabeth galloped across the fields, desperately turning her head from side to side, scanning the horizon for any sign of Thomas, Byron. She begged silently, holding back the sobs that threatened to unseat her, she needed all of her energy to ride fast to his side. 'Please, by all the gods, please allow me to find Thomas unharmed, I'll do anything, I'll give up everything, please let him be safe.'

She had lost sight of the house a while ago as she drove forward, her horse slowing under her through sheer exhaustion, she patted his neck and promised him the best life from now on if he would just carry her to Thomas now. She gritted her teeth, hating herself for every dig of her heels to his sides but unable to relent on her search for Thomas. She had to find him, she must.

Her heart caught in her throat, her blood pounding in her ears as she searched desperately and was both relieved and worried when she saw a fully tacked horse grazing across the field she had entered. 'One final push,' she promised her horse, 'just get me over there.' Her horse had slowed to a reluctant trot now, unable to give her any more. Frustrated, she threw herself from the saddle and ran the last few yards, it felt more like a furlong to her legs that weighed her down like stone. She stumbled but pushed forward, suddenly catching sight of a shape on the grass beyond the horse. It wasn't moving. It was human-shaped.

'No, please, no.' Elizabeth propelled forward with her last ounce of strength to the shape, wishing away the inevitable with everything she possessed. She cried out as she drew closer and saw the figure was indeed Thomas, he lay motionless in the grass, a large bloodstain emanating from a hole in his waistcoat.

She threw herself to the ground next to him, hands on his chest, shaking him and crying out his name, the tears she had repressed on the journey finally burst forth as her worst fears were confirmed. She knelt by his head and gently cradled him around the neck as she checked for a pulse. Non-existent. She searched for signs of him breathing. None. 

She called his name over and over, begging him to wake up, she was here now, she would never leave his side again. She shouted her desperation into the sky, threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly as though the strength of her love alone could revive him, this succeeded only in covering her in his blood. She didn't notice, his body was still warm, he still held a resemblance to her Thomas, she thought of herself as a widow – of course she would have married him. She could never have married Byron, not really, she wouldn't have went through with it.

Elizabeth lovingly brushed Thomas' hair away from his forehead, frowning and wiping away a faint trail of his blood she had left on his face. He didn't deserve this, to be murdered, for she had no doubt Byron was to blame. No doubt he was long gone by now, fleeing the scene of his crime like the coward he is. 

He had intercepted Thomas' letter to her, a love poem, Byron would of course have interpreted that as a grave threat from Thomas, he would have wanted to assert his dominance by neutralising Thomas, the only way he knew how – with violence. No, no more thoughts of Byron, she had thoughts enough only for Thomas now, her Thomas.

If only she had stayed with Thomas the night they met in the walled garden, if only she had ignored her sister's call, Byron's power and wealth, all she really wanted from life was love. That could have been her life with Thomas, they could have eloped that night and spent the rest of their lives in blissful harmony.

She felt as though her soul had been ripped out, the pain tore through her mercilessly, she wished she could have been laying bleeding beside Thomas. That she could have shouldered some of his burden, they could have been together. If only she had arrived earlier, ridden harder, left her home earlier. If only she'd chosen to visit Byron before today, maybe she could have talked him out of it. She knew she could never go back to him now, could never look him in the face, knowing what he'd done. She cried freely over Thomas' inert body, clutching his shirt, wailing to the otherwise empty field. She took too long to acknowledge her love for him. If only...If only...

The love Elizabeth felt - and was finally able to express - built up as she knelt over him, she knew it would build to a cresendo, steadily rising like a wave to break over the shore, she wanted to be swept away, to drown in her grief and not have to live in this reality where she couldn't be with him. When her grief had subsided enough, she lay next to him, entwined his hand in her own and faced the sky with him. Her eyes full of regrets, his – unseeing.

She gripped his hand tightly, if only her touch, her love could bring him back, just one more chance. She would do things differently this time, better, she would make it work. She would leave Byron for Thomas that night they met in the garden. She would give all of the days she had left on this Earth to relive that one evening with Thomas. Her eyes closed as she replayed that memory over and over, lying next to her only love, the sun was setting behind the trees now, the grass becoming damp, the world eager to close the curtains on this hellish day. She wondered if she lay there long enough, would she stiffen and never move again? Would she sink into the grass and be reclaimed by the Earth?

Thomas was as still as a rock and she clung to him, her lighthouse in stormy seas, she wanted nothing more than to be near him, caring not for what happened now. Her mind was blank, numb. No thoughts left that were worth thinking, she would simply lie there until her fate matched that of Thomas. She would never leave his side again. 

At Thomas' house James was pacing uneasily, he had been told Thomas was riding in the grounds and wasn't expected to be out long, that was hours ago and he had not returned. Although Thomas had a habit of long rides and losing track of time, James was becoming impatient – tinged with worry. He had resolved not to fret and wondered upstairs, pacing around the house to avoid sitting still. He heard servants approaching down the corridor and slipped into Thomas' room to avoid them, he was in no mood for conversation. As he stood in the familiar room, he heard the conversation of the servants as they passed outside the room. “Two visitors today apparently – a man then a woman, respectable sort mind...well...” 

He paced nervously over to the desk, glancing down at the mess of papers that lay there, he gave a tight smile at Thomas' untidiness when he was writing. The parchment on top seemed to be a completed poem, he picked the sheet up and read in a whisper:

>   
>  “I watched thee on the breakers, when the rock,  
>  Received our prow, and all was storm and fear,  
>  And bade thee cling to me through every shock;  
>  This arm would be thy bark, or breast thy bier.”  
> 

He could still hear the servants, they must have paused to finish their conversation in the upstairs hallway, away from the family, “...and you should have seen the state of her! Wild, possessed like a mad thing she was!”

James tried to block out the gossip of the servants, as his eyes skimmed down the page, omitting some verses for a swifter read, others hitting him with a force, they would not be ignored. The more he read, the more he experienced a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He suddenly knew why Thomas had written this, who he had written it for – and who had called at the house today that gave the servants so much to gossip about.

>   
>  “And when convulsive throes denied my breath  
>  The faintest utterance to my fading thought,  
>  To thee―to thee―e’en in the gasp of death  
>  My spirit turned, oh! oftener than it ought."  
> 

“They both demanded to know the whereabouts of master Thomas and left in a right hurry once they were told...like they were chased by the Devil himself! I very much doubt either of them were after master Thomas to pass the time of day...something's going on with that boy, mark my words!”

James could no longer concentrate on the poem, the servant's words seemed to be magnified in the silence of the room. A beacon shining a light on a truth too terrible for James to acknowledge.

>   
>  "Thus much and more; and yet thou lov’st me not,  
>  And never wilt! Love dwells not in our will.  
>  Nor can I blame thee, though it be my lot  
>  To strongly, wrongly, vainly love thee still.”  
> 

“Thomas,” he murmured to the empty room, “what have you done?”

James took no more time to consider, he threw the parchment back onto the pile, turned on his heel and strode purposefully from the room, ignoring the startled servants as he wrenched open the door and hurried downstairs. He must find Thomas, before he does something stupid, something which he would no doubt regret. Before anything bad happens, before...James only hoped he would find Thomas in time.

Byron was at his home, after storming in and shouting at any servants who dared to cross his path, he had locked himself in his study and was frantically cleaning his pistols. They gleamed and brightly reflected the candlelight but he still saw bloodstains and scrubbed until his hands were raw. He had not noticed Thomas' poem was missing from the drawing room, by the time he did, it would be too late.

Dusk fell across the field, shielding the couple from any prying eyes that sought to disrupt their peace. Thomas' hand felt cold against hers now, but she still held on, telling herself it was merely the chill of the night in the walled garden that caused Thomas' cold grasp. She would move closer, hold him tighter, they would dance on into the night, twirling and laughing, holding onto the promise of sunny days ahead, just beyond the dawn. But for now they were lost in the night, the two stars that shone brightest within the garden. They would spend this night hand in hand and face the dawn together when the time came. Elizabeth knew only she would remain in the dark silence of the night forever, to keep Thomas by her side. She whispered to him, soundlessly so that only the gods themselves could hear, “I love you Thomas Thorne.”


	12. The Beauty Of The Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A poem to accompany the novella.

Where lies the beauty of the rose?  
The delicate petals are pleasing enough.  
The charming flower that represents love,  
It's fragrant bloom the scent of Summer.

A staple in the traditional British garden,  
Reminiscent of times long ago.  
The romance of a walled garden,  
Love blooming in the tranquillity.

Perhaps the beauty in the rose lies not in the appearance,  
But in the details, what is not, at first noticeable.  
The strong stem, a foundation for that bonny flower,  
The subtle thorns.  
Reminding us that danger lies within the beauty.  
Not all is, as it first appears.

The razor point in contrast to the rounded petals,  
The curves and the edges, the soft and the sharp.  
Perhaps it isn't the colour of the petals that draws the eye,  
But the simple truth of the thorn.  
Which shows the beauty of the rose.

The magic of the story lies within the telling,  
The beauty of the rose lies within the seeing.  
As is a good story, the rose is timeless,  
Unchanging throughout the years.

The flower represents love,  
The thorn is pain.  
The rose contains both,  
The love of the past, the pain of the present.

Traditionally the symbol for lovers,   
It has withstood the test of time.  
The ancient walled garden,  
Now a ruin of it's former glory.  
Today it still contains,  
The Ghost of a Thorn Among The Roses.


End file.
